


Dispense with Right and Wrong

by BrushDog



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, McCree is a double agent, McCree/Genji eventually, Origin Story, Post-Omnic Crisis, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Talon Jesse McCree, Team as Family, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2018-08-19 11:37:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 89,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8204863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrushDog/pseuds/BrushDog
Summary: When an omnic in a shady diner extends a seventeen-year-old Jesse McCree an offer, he doesn't give much thought to the way it could change the rest of his life. Or the world, for that matter.
AU where McCree is a Talon double agent and brings about the fall of Overwatch.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my friend [AV's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AVoresmith/pseuds/AVoresmith) [traitor McCree](http://avoresmith.tumblr.com/post/148865081285/ok-folks-i-have-a-fan-theory-for-you-brace) theory and my friend [Chloe's](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com) [excellent angry baby McCree art.](http://chloerozo.tumblr.com/post/148498251844/consider-proud-dad-reyes-if-torbjorns-deadlock)
> 
> I fully expect for everything I've planned for the fic to be thoroughly contradicted by Blizzard in less than a month so I'm just slapping the AU label up there ahead of time. Tags will be updated as the fic goes on. There is a pairing planned for the later parts of the fic, but there isn't going to be a happy ending.

Three days before the attack on the Deadlock Gorge, Jesse McCree finds himself face to face with an omnic in a seedy diner right off of Route 66. To say omnics are rare in the Southwest following the crisis is an understatement. To say that they're unwelcome is putting it too lightly. The smaller omnium in the middle of the Mojave might not have made the news in the same way as the facilities that wrecked havoc in Australia, Siberia, and the Silicon Valley, but the crisis it provoked is still fresh in the memories of the locals here.

Usually, the only omnics Jesse sees are stray travelers, Shambali missionaries, that sort of thing. The sort of visitors who stick out like a sore thumb, either by the cut of their clothes or the disdain that he swears he can read in their unchanging, inhuman face plates. The monks they let go, none of them mean to stay long anyway. The boss is only interested in the tourists, anyway. They never do travel light, and omnium parts fetch a nice price on the black market. No one's going to come looking for a missing omnic anyway, and it's not like the locals are the sort to snitch the gang out to the cops.

This omnic is neither of those. This one blends in. A tattered black serape hangs over its slender shoulders, drawn up over its head like a hood. Its joints clank together with a sound that almost sounds like the jangle of spurs to his ears. It doesn't talk, doesn't make any sort of nattering remarks about the wonder of the place or how quaint it is like the others. The thing sits across from Jesse in his booth, gloved hands crossed in front of it. It's not until he glances up and sees the flickering glow of its faceplate that he realizes his new companion isn't human.

Jesse scowls at the visitor over his plate of greasy toast and greasier eggs. Shifting to lean back, he lets one hand fall to the holster at his hip, not bothering to mask the threat of the gesture.

"Well now," he says flatly, "I wasn't expecting company."

"Then you shouldn't be surprised," the omnic replies in Spanish, its voice pitched high, feminine. "I am not company."

Jesse's scowl deepens, fingers hard against the butt of his gun.

"Then you'd best get to telling me what you are."

"A savior," the omnic says. "I have an offer I would like to extend to you, Jesse McCree."

The fact that the omnic knows him catches him by surprise. At seventeen years old, Jesse McCree is no one noteworthy. Even with the ranks of Deadlock, his name is only passed around with the kind of language one would expect for a kid of his age. Sure, he might fancy himself as something of a good shot, but it's nothing more than that.

If an omnic, an outsider, knows who he is, that means trouble. His hand closes around the gun at his hip, ready to draw at a moment's notice, when one of the omnic's hands lifts in a placating gesture.

"That won't be necessary," it says, tone neutral.

Jesse grits his teeth against his anger.

"You gonna tell me why the hell it's not?"

"I told you, I'm here to make you an offer. I mean no harm against the Deadlock Gang. My associates and I have had favorable interactions with them throughout the past several years." The omnic lowers its hand, its posture unmoving, before it adds, "The parts you supply us with are top quality, after all."

Jesse's hand twitches against the barrel of his gun, not seeking out the trigger yet. Deadlock's trade in omnic parts isn't a secret that would be too difficult to figure out, given their methods. But to tell the truth, he's only ever seen the exchanges that happen at a distance, from lookout points over alleyways, things like that. Still, something about the omnic doesn't sit right with him.

"How do I know you ain't lying?" he asks, voice lowered.

The omnic's shoulders shrug, a gesture too calculated to look as casual as it's surely meant to be.

"If I meant you harm," it says, "you would be dead."

For a moment, Jesse's eyes flick over to take in the rest of the diner. His booth sits in a far corner, out of view of the entrance and kitchens, with a window overlooking Deadlock Gorge to one side. When he came in twenty minutes ago, he counted seven patrons scattered throughout the place, three at the bar, and the rest in sets of two at the tables in the floor. At this time of day, they've usually only got one waitress on staff, three in the kitchen. The door's only chimed once since then, probably with the omnic's arrival.

"If you're thinking about what the collateral damage would be in a fight, don't" the omnic says, interrupting his thoughts. "My programming excels at close quarters combat."

"Is that right," Jesse huffs, turning back to fix the omnic with an angry scowl.

"It is," the omnic answers. Jesse can almost swear he sees the lights on the omnic's faceplate flicker, mocking him, but he knows it's just his imagination.

For the first time he actually takes a moment to get a good look at the thing, trying to pin a make or model onto it. The faded black serape and worn leather gloves over its hands make it hard to tell, but the shape of its faceplate alone is unlike anything that Jesse's ever seen on civilian models. Even the Shambali don't have the same sort of angular plating against shimmering black metal. If the omnic really is combat grade, or something else, it looks the part well enough.

The back of Jesse's mind still itches with distrust, fight or flight instincts crawling between his shoulderblades. Maybe he couldn't take the omnic in a fight. Probably even if he could he'd just wind up in shit with the boss for trashing the diner. The owners of this place always keep up on their protection money, always welcome gang members and sometimes even serving them up without making them pay. It doesn't do well to repay that kind of hospitality with bringing the fight to their doorstep. But something deep inside Jesse still wants to snap the omnic's pretty little faceplate off, to unload a clip of bullets into it just to feed the roiling indignation at the fact that the bot knew too much about him.

Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest, chin jutting up at the omnic in defiance.

"Well, go on," he says, nearly growling the words out. "What's your offer?"

The omnic nods, slowly, the glow of its faceplate vanishing under the edge of the fabric pulled over its head before it looks back up to him.

"In three days, Deadlock will be attacked. You'll be hopelessly outnumbered, so there isn't much chance for victory."

Jesse's fingers tighten against the leather of his jacket over his arms, lips curling in a snarl. "That sounds more like a threat than an offer to me--"

"However," the omnic says, lifting its hand to call for his silence. Jesse grudgingly obeys. "Your attackers will make you an offer. Join them or face imprisonment. My offer is this: join them, and join us in bringing them down. You'll be our agent, and we'll see to it that you're rewarded once they've been destroyed."

Jesse scowls, the bile of anger still rolling at the back of his throat.

"So let me get this straight," he spits, careful emphasis on the last syllable. "You're calling yourself allies of Deadlock, and you know there's someone there who's got it out for us, someone stronger than what we've got right now. You ain't gonna help us fight them, but hell, if you just had a man on the inside, you could take them down yourselves. Am I reading you right?"

"That's right."

"Sounds like mighty big talk to me," Jesse unclenches his hands against his arms, leaning forward with deliberate purpose. "Because if you ask me, when you're saying maybe we don't gotta chance at beating these guys but you do it seems like you're just looking for an excuse to leave the gang high and dry. Like you ain't willing to stand up and back us up in this fight that's coming to our door."

"That's right as well," the omnic answers with toneless levity. "We have a chance at victory, but if we stand with Deadlock that chance will be lost."

Jesse swallows down his idignation, gaze narrowed on the omnic's glowing faceplate.

"So you're sacrificing the gang."

"Well done, Jesse McCree," the omnic lilts, mocking. "You've figured it out. I wasn't aware your mind was as sharp as your shooting."

"You sure you should be saying that to the guy you want to be your double agent," Jesse scoffs, picking up his fork to stab it into the greasy eggs on his plate.

"I'd thought my meaning was obvious from the offer," the omnic shrugs lightly, unperturbed.

"Yeah, well, doesn't hurt to set the record straight," Jesse says before shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth. He chews, swallows, scowling up at the omnic as he turns its words over slowly in his mind. The omnic doesn't move, its faceplate impassive as it watches him the whole time. The damn thing give him the creeps.

"So what's to say," he says at last, "That I don't just turn on you, take the side of whoever it is that you're convinced is gonna take me in after wiping out my whole gang."

"It's a possibility," the omnic concedes. "Obviously, we wouldn't reward you. Those funds would be diverted elsewhere."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"A bounty," the omnic answers lightly. "At least an addition to the one already on your head."

"You know how to sweet talk a guy," Jesse grouses over another forkful of eggs.

"It's only the truth," the omnic says. "The information that you possess about us is also immaterial. What could you really offer them, other than the knowledge that we wish to infiltrate their ranks? I assure you they're well aware of that. They know as well as we do, those who hold the information hold the power."

"Classy little catchphrase you've got there," Jesse says.

The omnic sits up a little straighter at the comment. It's probably just Jesse's imagination, projecting something human onto something that isn't, but the damn thing almost looks proud.

He looks away, pushing eggs against his plate as he turns the omnic's words over in his head. There's a chance he's being lied to, there always is, but in this situation it doesn't seem likely. If he turns the thing down, walks right out of the diner and tells the boss everything the omnic told him and three days later no attack came, how would that put the omnic at an advantage? What's more, he's sure the boss wouldn't be too pleased about being set up as the bait for whatever plot the omnic was cooking against these unnamed enemies. So, as it stood, lying means nothing for the omnic but the destruction of a lucrative, professional relation.

So the more likely scenario is that the thing's telling him the truth, or at least some version of it. The weight of it sits heavy in Jesse's mouth, sour. His life outside of Deadlock hadn't been much to speak of. The Crisis began before he'd been old enough to remember and at the end of it he'd been left with nothing. Deadlock saw the opportunity in orphaned brats like him, kids left in poverty at the war-torn fringes of the omnium where no government agency or group of international do gooders would spare them so much as a second glance. He'd been snatched up at the age of twelve, given a gun and taught how to threaten and intimidate, how to dismantle an omnic for parts, how to extort protection money, run weapons across the borders and do business on the black market.

They were practical skills, and that's what Jesse had seen them as. He excelled not because he cared one way or the other about what Deadlock stood for, but because he knew what would come to him if he so much as thought about crossing the boss in any way. He'd seen it happen to the kids who'd been with him when they were picked up off the street. He has his fair share of scars from when he'd learned just how far he could push the line.

Even now, he can feel the watchful eye of Deadlock at his back. But when it comes down to it, there's not much chance that the omnic in front of him isn't telling the truth. Deadlock's days are numbered. As Jesse sees it, there's three options in front of him.

One, he takes what the omnic's told him and runs. Hiding out from Deadlock for three days isn't an impossible task, and once they're gone there'd be no one out for his hide. He'd be on his own, sure, with no money to his name and only a head full of practical skills. It's not impossible, but with the promise of a reward on the table, it doesn't seem quite as promising.

Two, he tells the boss, fights for what he's worth and dies with the gang. It's the least appealing option by far. When Jesse was younger he never thought he'd live to see seventeen. Even where he stands now, he doesn't give much thought to the future, but like hell if he won't fight for every day that his life sees fit to give him. Deadlock might mean something now, but it's nothing that he's about to throw his life away for.

Three, he takes the offer.

His gaze flicks up to the omnic who's been sitting silently across from him this whole time, looking every bit like it's got all the patience in the world. He doesn't doubt it either.

Setting his fork down, Jesse leans back, arms crossing over his chest as he regards the omnic with an even gaze.

"Now when you say rewarded, just what kind of money are we talking here?"

The omnic's hands spread open in front of it, the gesture open and magnanimous. It knows that it's won.

"Name your price."

Jesse scoffs, grinning despite himself. "Now that's the kind of sweet talk I like."

\---

One thing the omnic neglected to mention and that Jesse neglected to ask is exactly who it was that had their sight set on Deadlock Gorge in three days' time. Somehow, in Jesse's mind, he'd assumed it would just be a rival gang, drug lords from Mexico trying to expand their territory, something like that. Yet when the alarms sound, shots echoing through the gorge and Jesse gets his first glimpse of their enemy he doesn't expect to see the Blackwatch logo emblazoned on the armor of their attackers.

"Son of a bitch," he hisses under his breath, ducking behind a wall in the bunker to slam a fresh magazine into the AK slung over his shoulder. "Too big to take out on your own, you need a man on the inside." He tries to steal a peek around the corner, recoiling when a spray of dust and concrete scatters from a shot lodged into the wall just inches away from where his head was.

"Son of a goddamn bitch."

Gangs infighting is one thing, black ops from international watch dogs is something else entirely. After discussing the terms of the agreement, the omnic had told him that he'd want to make sure to defend himself for the fighting itself. Not enough to call his loyalty into question before the outcome was settled but, in its own words, "Don't go charging in like a hero and get yourself killed."

Trapped as he is, outnumbered and outgunned, the words ring hollow in his head.

"Don't get killed," he mutters, crouching to the ground to where the bloody corpse of his lookout partner, an upstart kid named Donovan who'd been brought in from off the streets with him, lays sprawled in front of him, faceless save for a bullet pocked mess of gore, brain, and bone that Jesse can't even bring himself to look at.

"Easy enough for a goddamn robot to say."

With shaking hands he rips the knife that Donovan always kept at his hip from its sheath. Gunfire still rattles against the walls of the bunker, but there's a sound that's closer now. The rustle of footsteps and body armor echoes down the hallway to Jesse's right. They know his position. There's not many members of Deadlock left standing anyway, so they're coming in to flank. They want to take him alive, he tells himself, the omnic's words ringing in his head against the adrenaline pounding through his veins.

"You wanna make me an offer," Jesse's voice cracks even to his own ears, a rasping whisper above the din. "Taking down kids like Donovan but shit, you're still gonna make me an offer."

He pulls the gun slung over his shoulders away, tossing it to the ground with a clatter. The damn thing won't do him any good in close quarters. The footsteps in the hallway pause for a moment. They've heard it.

"Now I know you're thinking," Jesse mutters to himself, slipping along the wall next to the open door leading out to the hallway. "Did we get him? Did he just go down?"

The footsteps don't sound again. They're moving slower now, cautious. "Or maybe you're thinking, he's heard us now. Reckon we better be careful."

Jesse's fingers curl tighter around the knife. They won't stop shaking. He crouches down, eyes wide and fixed on the frame of the door. He swallows his breaths, holding them tight inside himself. Don't make a sound, he thinks against the slamming echo of his pulse ringing in his ears. Don't make a goddamn sound.

The figure detaches itself from the door like a shadow. One minute there's nothing and the next thing Jesse knows he's there, his back turned to Jesse as he checks the far corner for survivors. It's a split second advantage, Jesse can already see the twist in the man's powerful legs as he starts to turn to where Jesse's crouched. But a spilt second is all that he needs. That's all that he wants.

He springs from his crouch, breathlessly seized by nothing more than pure instinct. His knife leaps forward, aimed for the barely visible seam in the shadow's body armor, a weak spot in the armpit left bare for mobility, but Jesse's fought enough to know it's there, it has to be there. He'll cut through skin, muscle, and nerves straight to arteries and veins.

The omnic's promise and its warning are both only echoes in the back of his mind. The fact that he barely stands a chance, some punk orphan kid against a trained soldier, doesn't matter much either. The crash of gunfire and the smear of blood over rust colored clay is the only thing that flashes in his mind. Damnit all to hell but he won't go down without a fight.

Yet as abruptly as Jesse's charge begins it comes to his end. Whipping about with a speed that no regular person should rightly possess, the shadow takes form. There's a hand around Jesse's wrist, wrenching it back until his fingers go limp, the knife clattering to the floor. The momentum of Jesse's body doesn't stop. He slams headlong into the shadow's armored chest, feet slipping out from under him as his shoulder jerks with a sickening pop.

He doesn't howl at the pain, doesn't cry. His teeth grit into it, white flashing before his eyes before his feet find the ground again, dragging his body back up as his free hand swings in a wide blow aimed for his attacker's face.

"Shit--" the man hisses catching the fist before it even connects.

A growl tears from Jesse's throat, sharp and visceral. He's trapped, he knows it, but the blood pounding hot in his veins won't let him stop.

"Fuck off!" He shouts, twisting in the man's powerful grin to send himself careening forward, every ounce of his meager weight thrown into attempt to headbutt the attacker off.

His nose collides against the solid weight of the man's chin with a sickening crack and another searing lance of pain. Blood streams from it a moment later, the heat of it dribbling down against Jesse's chin to the bunker floor.

"Goddamn kid," the man grunts. Before Jesse's senses come back to him, he's been twisted and slammed against the bunker wall, both hands pinned behind his back.

His lungs empty from the impact, sparks dancing against the back of his eyes as his nose grates against the unforgiving metal walls. He tries to suck in a breath, to give some sort of retort, but the man speaks first.

"Now you listen up, you damn brat. Your boss's dead. Your gang's gone. So that means you're coming with me." The last words are punctuated with a palm against the back of his head, shoving it into the wall, "Got it?"

Jesse dredges up a hacking breath, his lungs still screaming for want of air. "I get a choice in this matter?" he grunts out, still grit against the pain.

"Let me think," the man drawls. Then, without missing a beat, he adds, "No."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another offer on the table, and Blackwatch welcomes its newest member.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I couldn't get away with just making Blackwatch the Reyes and McCree party forever, so I've conjured up some Blackwatch members to fill the space. They'll get a bit more flesh as the story goes on, but the focus will be on McCree and Reyes for the most part.
> 
> Also I've updated the tags with my endgame ship now just so everyone knows what they're getting into. However, fair warning, our friendly neighborhood cyborg doesn't show up for 10 more years in the timeline of this fic. It's also still not going to be a happy ending.

The trip to the nearest Watchpoint at Grand Mesa is as uneventful as it is uncomfortable. The attacker binds Jesse's wrists together, pulls a hood over his head, and shoves him off to a waiting pair of hands to load Jesse into the transport. Without the adrenaline running through his veins, the throb of the injuries to his shoulder, wrist and nose are constant. His only small mercy is that the transport runs smoothly along the tracks. There's no bumps in the road until they reach their final destination and Jesse's hauled out and unceremoniously dumped in what he can only assume is a holding cell.

Arms still held behind his back, he stumbles with the push of his handler, catching his fall against the concrete floor with his busted shoulder.

"Shit--" he hisses between his teeth, but his handler doesn't seem to care. Jesse grunts, twists, and tries to push himself upright, turning his head towards where he came from, not even bothering to try and make anything out against the pitch black of the hood still pulled over his head.

"Little help here?" he croaks, his voice rough and low.

"Wait here," a voice answers him, a woman's voice. "The boss says he'll pay you a visit soon enough."

"Ain't that some hospitality," Jesse mutters.

The woman lets out a short, clipped laugh, before he hears the door slide shut and her footsteps echo slowly down the hallway.

He waits until the echo fades, straining his ears for any other sound. He didn't hear any other prisoners when they brought him in, even though there had been a few familiar voices in the scuffle of loading him onto the transport. Still, he thinks, it doesn't hurt to try.

"Anyone else alive down here?" he calls out. His voice echoes back at him in answer. He waits until that fades as well before slumping down against the hard concrete floor.

"Thought it wouldn't hurt to ask," he sighs, and settles in to wait.

He'd slept some on the transport, snatches of rest stolen when the pain of his injuries would allow it, and now is no different. In the moments of uneasy waking, the gravity of the situation was quick to settle about his shoulders like a tangible weight.

The omnic, or rather whoever it is pulling the omnic's strings, wants to take down Overwatch. They want to uproot the heroes of the crisis, to lay low the one thing that stood between humanity and its complete destruction.

"Should've asked for more," Jesse whispers against the fabric of the hood, careful to keep his voice low. There's no way they don't have him bugged right now, no way there aren't at least half a dozen cameras fixed on his holding cell.

It isn't long before the footsteps sound again, the door to his cell sliding open moments later. He jerks his head up to face it, wincing with the pain of the motion, but unwilling to let his head hang in the face of his captivity.

"So you the boss?" he asks as the footsteps close in, a rough hand jerking him to his feet by his good shoulder.

"Still me," the woman's voice answers him again. "Boss wants you for interrogation."

"Well ain't I lucky," Jesse mutters. The woman shoves at his back and he stumbles only once before catching his footing and making his way forward.

He counts his steps as they make their way through the base's hallways on instinct. So far, the omnic's word hasn't led him astray, but he's not about to get himself caught in the belly of the beast without at least thinking of a way out.

A few minutes later, he's hauled to a stop by his handler.

"Hold up," is the only thing she says before he hears the beeps of a keypad entry. The air whooshes in front of his face with the opening of a door that he's summarily pushed through.

"You don't think this'd be easier if you took the damn hood off?" he grunts, wincing as the woman wrenches his shoulder to push him into a chair.

"Have a little patience," she chides him, the mocking lilt clear in her voice. Behind him, Jesse can hear the chime of metal against metal as his wrist restraints are bound to the chair he's sitting on.

"I think I've done plenty of waiting," Jesse bites back. He gives his hands a pull for show, the metal chafing against his wrists.

"Well then, today's your lucky day," the woman says. A moment later, he feels her hands at his neck. The tie on the hood loosens and she whips it away to leave Jesse in the unrelenting glare of a light fixed on his face. He squints against it, blinking to adjust his eyes to the sudden light, but before he can even turn to fix his glare on his handler, the sliding whoosh of the door sounds, leaving him in the room alone.

"Hey--" he shouts, jerking against his restraints. "Where d'you think you're going?!"

"Cool it, kid," a voice sounds from overhead and Jesse whips his head back around.

The room is bare except for the single chair he's bound to that sits facing a wide mirror reflecting the image of his bruised and bloodied face back at him.

"Two way mirror, huh?" Jesse scowls, glaring his reflection down. "You ain't got the balls to face me yourself?"

"You should be grateful I'm taking time out of my day to talk to a punk like you," the voice answers him.

In that moment, Jesse recognizes it. It's the same gruff growl of the attacker from the bunker. He feels a smirk play across his lips, his eyes narrowed as he looks into the mirror.

"So you're the boss, huh? What, surprised I got the drop on you?"

"You got lucky, kid," the man answers, clearly unamused. "I'm the one who's asking the questions now."

"I ain't a damn kid," Jesse says, jaw clenching in anger.

"State your age," the man says.

"Seventeen," Jesse answers, unease twisting in his gut at the part of him that answers to the commanding authority in the man's voice.

"Still a kid," the man shoots back. "Name."

"Jesse McCree," he says. "What's yours?"

"None of your damn business, that's what."

"That's a mouthful," he says, feeling caked blood flick off his lips as he grins. "How d'you spell that?"

"I ask the questions," the man answers, his voice flat. "How long have you been with Deadlock, kid?"

"Said I ain't no kid," Jesse says. He knows he's being baited into it, but he doesn't care. "I've been with the gang five years now. How's that for a kid?"

He hears a hiss of the man's voice, the start of a curse, before the mic pops and cuts off, picking back up only seconds later.

"They picked you up when you were twelve?"

"That's what I said," Jesse says, glaring down his own reflection. "You think I'm lying?"

There's a noncommittal sound from the speakers, the man doesn't bother muting the mic for that one before he continues on, "Do you understand why you're here, Jesse McCree?"

Jesse's earlier mantra rattles in his ears, guts twisting at the thought of it and the memory of the firefight still viscerally fresh in his mind. They're gonna make him an offer, but they don't know he knows that. He can't blow his cover before the whole thing even starts.

"You got me," he says instead, words shaking with the lie. He hopes they thinks it's just nerves. Maybe that's what it is.

"We've got an international warrant for the arrest of any known affiliates of the Deadlock Gang. Served on top of enough evidence to convict any of its members of kidnapping, disassembly of omnics, trafficking parts, trafficking drugs, illegal weapons trade, and racketeering to boot. Does that sound right?"

"Sounds about right," Jesse says with a shrug of his shoulders, wincing as he remembers his injury. "So what're you gonna do about it?"

"That depends on you, Jesse McCree," the man says. "The warrant we have is a one way ticket to solitary confinement in a high security prison in Santa Fe. But we'd be willing to find you some nicer accommodations if you're willing to help us out."

He swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry at the thought of what's to come.

"What kind of accommodations?"

"It's simple," the man says. "You come and work for me and you help us track down every gang that Deadlock's ever worked with."

There it is. He stares, wide eyed in shock, before the tension of the moment splits like a frayed rope pulled too hard and he lets loose a loud, hysterical laugh.

Son of a bitch, the omnic wasn't lying. Jesse can't even believe it. The man doesn't speak, doesn't even bother to interrupt even as Jesse's laughter dies down, tears stinging against the corners of his eyes. He draws in a shaking breath, staring up at the mirror, at the mess of his bloody reflection, and smiles.

"You're serious?" he asks, voice cracking as he asks.

"I don't joke about work," the man answers.

"Aw, hell," Jesse doesn't bother to fight the grin on his face. "I'm just surprised you didn't put a bullet in my head and call it good. You wanna parade me around like some goddamn trophy?"

"Watch it, kid," the man cuts in, but Jesse isn't done yet.

"How's that look, anyway?" he says, charging on before the echo of the man's words dies down, babbling breathlessly but unable to stop.  "Shooting up seventeen year olds gets you good looks, huh? And I bet you guys up there are calling this justice, ain't you? Bet the world's mighty proud of the job you're doing, you stuck up fucks. "

He spits the last word at the mirror, feeling it rise at the back of his throat. The rest starts streaming out of him before he can even put thought to it, spilling out like the blood dripping from the image of Donovan's crushed skull that won't leave his mind.

"You know I ain't a goddamn bot, don't you? Did you run outta those, huh? Shot down enough omnics so now you'll come after us instead? You didn't seem to give much of a damn when everything we had was wasted."

He remembers the streets, the looting. His mother standing in the doorway only to crumple down in a mess of threadbare fabric and blood. He thought he'd pushed that one away years ago. He fights to shove it aside again.

"Big goddamn heroes, ain't that what you're supposed to be?" he's shaking, he can't stop it. The chair underneath him clatters as he jerks against the cuffs on his wrists. "The hell were you fucking heroes doing back then, huh? Couldn't have even stopped by for a how d'you do after the fighting wrecked everything we had. We ain't good enough for the photo op? Ain't no one wanna see what shit looks like when you gotta build it back from the ground up?"

"I'm telling you, kid--" the man's voice cuts in and Jesse snarls, barking back at it.

"I'm telling you!" he shouts, leaning forward against his wrenched shoulder, letting the sting of the pain drive him on. "I'm not your fucking charity case! You want me to join Overwatch? Fuck your goddamn Overwatch!"

Jesse only stops because he's out of breath, shoulders heaving with strain. He shudders as he slumps back against the chair, not once letting his gaze waver as he stares his reflection down like it's got the devil inside of it.

There's no reply from the man behind it. Nothing to listen to but the pounding of his pulse in his ears, the ragged draw of his own breaths.

Fucking hell, he realizes, reason creeping back at the edges of his mind. He just pissed away the biggest damn payoff in his life. But they always did say he had a hot head on his shoulders, didn't they? Not much sense for thinking things through.

"Goddamn," Jesse hisses under his breath, finally tearing his eyes away from the mirror, unwilling to look himself in the eye anymore.

"God--fucking damn," his shoulders shake. He wants to laugh again, so he does. Incredulous and self-effacing. Somewhere in the middle of it, he feels heat stinging at the corners of his eyes so he blinks it away. The tears are still rolling down his cheeks when the woman comes back, pulling the restraints off the chair.

He still doesn't get a good look at her face before she pulls the hood back over his head.

\---

The next few days pass with an uneasy tension slowly eating through the better part of Jesse's bravado. Each time he hears the sweep of the cell door opening he waits to be hauled up out of his cell, to be walked through the dark hallways again to a transport with a one way ticket to a life of solitary. Every time it doesn't happen, part of him wishes that it would. He wishes they would just get the damn thing over with already.

The woman stops by with a small biotic field over shortly after his interrogation, uncuffing him to let his shoulder set properly. He gets a good look at her then. She's almost a head shorter than he is, but the obvious tone of her muscles and very visible sheaths strapped to her arms and thighs let Jesse know that he wouldn't last a minute against her in a fight. With jet black hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head and strong jawline, she has a face that's equal parts warmth and authority. It's too familiar for Jesse to stand looking at her much. She's the one to bring him his meal that night as well, something that looks to fresh to be out of a mess hall or rations, but Jesse isn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He eats without saying a word.

The next day, he's greeted by a tall, sleek man with warm, dark brown skin and short, tightly curled hair dyed bright orange and yellow. He seems friendly enough, if you ignore the two handguns holstered at his hips, but Jesse admits he isn't much for being chatted up by strangers while awaiting imprisonment. His pride stings too much to stoop so low.

On the third day, his impatience gets the better of his good judgement, and he shoots the woman a sullen glare over the bowl of porridge that she brings him for breakfast.

"Thought I was on my way to the big house. How long are ya'll planning on keeping me here?"

That earns him a clipped laugh, a lopsided smirk sharp enough to cut to bone.

"You'll be out soon enough, kid."

He gives an indignant huff in reply.

"Ain't no kid."

The next day, change comes with heavy footfalls and another familiar face.

Jesse didn't get the best look at his attacker, Blackwatch's head honcho, when he was slammed up against the wall and dizzy from the pain at Deadlock, but he recognizes the build of the man when he comes into view outside of Jesse's cell shortly after breakfast.

He turns from where he's leaned up against the wall, quirking an eyebrow in question. They agents haven't bothered with the hood since day one. He finally gets a better look at the man, and it's everything that he would have imagined from someone running a show like Blackwatch. The man towers over him, solid, broad, and impossibly built. He looks like a statue carved from stained wood, the close shaven beard on his face highlighting a mouth drawn into a permanent frown. Even in the halls of his own base, the man dresses in all black, a knitted black beanie pulled over his head to complete the look.

Jesse feels goosebumps prickle over his skin at the intensity of the man's glare. It must be time.

"Well now," he drawls, feigning indifference, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Looks like someone found his manners," the man replies, reaching for the keypad to slide the door to Jesse's cell open. "Get up."

"I didn't find nothing," Jesse says, jerking his gaze away. Defiant, he remains sitting.

The man makes a sound that if Jesse didn't know any better he would have sworn was a laugh.

"Looks like you lost them again," he says. He crosses the room in two easy strides, reaching down to catch Jesse by the back of his shirt, hauling him up like a sack of potatoes.

Jesse squirms, scrambling at the sudden motion.

"Hey--put me down, I can walk on my own!"

"Didn't look like you wanted to," the man quips back, setting Jesse back on his feet.

Jesse's about to turn on him, about to let the man have it when he feels the man's hand reach down, catching on the cuffs over his wrists. Jesse braces himself, waiting for the jerk and pull of being dragged backwards by the restraints, but what comes instead is a soft electronic beep and the quick slide of the cuffs as they retract from around his wrists, clattering to the floor of the cell.

He turns, not sure what to expect, but the sight of the man's back as he moves back to the cell door isn't anywhere near the top of the list.

"Come on, move it."

Jesse stares. He thinks his mouth's fallen open but he doesn't even have the sense to close it. The man turns and glares at him over his shoulder when he doesn't hear the sound of Jesse's footsteps behind him.

"Did you hear me, kid? I said move it."

"I ain't going nowhere," Jesse says on instinct and defiance, backing up against the wall of the cell. "Not until you say where we're going."

The man glances back at him over an impossibly broad shoulder, one eyebrow quirked in question.

"Where do you think?"

"Prison," Jesse answers without missing a beat. His hand rubs at his wrists where the cuffs were not a minute ago. "Though hell, y'usually let the prisoners have free reign when you're taking them out?"

"Not usually," the man answers. "In fact, pretty much never."

Jesse scowls. "So if it ain't prison where is it?"

"Did you forget the offer already, kid?" the man asks. He turns to face Jesse fully now, leaning against the door to the cell with arms crossed over his chest. "I only gave you two options."

"I'm not joining Overwatch," Jesse says, with only a fraction of the heat of his outburst from a few days ago. The protest sound small and pathetic to his own ears.

"I never said anything about Overwatch," the man says, something sour curling around the word on his lips. He lifts two fingers on one hand, tapping them against the stark white skull sewn into the black of his sweatshirt. "You're working for me now."

"You mean Blackwatch," the realization finally catches up with Jesse, his eyes widening slightly.

"Now you've got it," the man says. In one fluid motion, he pushes himself off the doorway, motioning for Jesse to follow after. "You can thank me later."

"Don't think you've done anything worth giving thanks for," Jesse shoots back. 

"Damn ingrate," the man says under his breath, loud enough for Jesse to hear.

His fingers squeeze against the skin of his wrist, an echo of his earlier restraints. In all honesty, he should be grateful, ecstatic even. But he can't shake the uneasy feeling of it. Just who the hell is this guy that he'd be willing to take in a kid, an enemy no less, after he turned down the offer on the table? It feels like he's being played--or worse, being pitied. Like Mister Blackwatch here thinks he can win over Jesse with some show of sympathy for a street kid who fell in with the wrong crowd.

Jesse glances up at where the man's waiting in the doorway, at the dark eyes staring down at him with contempt. There's no pity there, at least. If anything, it feels like those eyes can see right through him, that the man in front of him already knows about the omnic, the offer, and every bit of his own undoing that he's inviting into his house by giving Jesse a second chance at the offer. But, hell, if that's the case then Jesse almost pities him. He's not one to balk at second chances.

"I gotta name," he says, stepping slowly towards the doorway. "I told you that already."

"I'll call you your name when you earn it," the man says, the corner of his lips curling in a shadow of a smirk as he turns to lead Jesse towards the door at the end of the hall.

"Seems mighty disrespectful if you ask me," Jesse huffs. The cells they pass are all empty, pristine. It looks like he's the only prisoner they've had down here in a long while.

"You'll get respect when you earn it too."

"What a warm welcome," Jesse rolls his eyes behind the man's back.

"You haven't seen the welcome committee yet," the man says and Jesse wonders, not for the first time in the past week, just what he's gotten himself into.

\---

The welcome committee, it turns out, is the familiar faces of Jesse's handlers from his time in the cell. He gets their names: man is Lekan, the woman is Nida, as well as the name of his new commander, Gabriel Reyes.

"You'll call me Commander," Reyes tells him in a tone that brokers no argument. "I don't answer to Gabriel."

"Suit yourself, Gabi," Jesse says with a shrug that earns him a cuff against the back of his head from Reyes and startles a laugh out of Nida.

"You picked up a feisty one, Reyes," she says, fixing him with a wide grin. "What'd the Strike Commander have to say about it?"

Even Jesse can feel the mood of the room shift with the silence that stretches out as Reyes fixes Nida with an indecipherable glance. He shrugs his shoulders in a weighted gesture, waving the question off with one hand.

"He'll find out about it later."

"Hey, wait, you haven't told Morrison yet?" Lekan seems shocked by this, shoulders hunching as he frowns up at his commanding officer. "Don't you think he should know about this?"

"This is my jurisdiction," Reyes says without hesitation. "He'll find out about it when the paperwork comes through."

"Geeze, whatever you say, man, you're the boss." Lekan says, running a nervous hand up through his brightly colored hair.

Jesse glances off to the side, feigning disinterest in the whole exchange. It's clearly not the first time that Reyes and this Morrison guy have been at odds with each other. But whatever's going on, he doesn't have much time to contemplate it before Reyes's hand closes over his shoulder, turning him away from the rest of the group.

"Move it, kid. Your tour's just starting now."

"I'm not a kid," Jesse says, digging his heels in just enough to resist before he's pushed along regardless. "And I got a name."

"Jesse McCree, wasn't it?" Nida calls out from behind him. "Think you can remember that, Reyes?"

"Kid gets his name when he earns it," Reyes fires back.

"That's the boss's tough love for you," Lekan says before the door to the common area slides shut behind them.

"Damn slackers," Reyes mutters under his breath, though Jesse would have to be a deaf man not to hear the fondness in the tone.

His toe scuffs against the concrete floor of the hallway, not letting on that he'd heard it. Reyes doesn't miss a beat either, launching right into his tour.

"That's the break room," Reyes says. "You won't be seeing much of it until I'm done with you. Kitchen and mess is here," he taps a panel demonstratively, opening up a door into a modest sized dining area with a sink, stove, and cabinets against one wall with two tables in the center of the room. Reyes taps the panel again and the door slides shut. "You'll go on meal rotation once you're up to it. Everyone get breakfast, lunch, and dinner. If you want anything else, you cook it, you eat it, you clean it up. Don't waste rations and don't make a mess."

"Sure thing, Gabi," Jesse huffs out with a scowl, wincing when Reyes shoves him along down the hallway.

"First thing I'm teaching you is some respect," Reyes shoots back. He rounds a corner and they come to a hallway lined with evenly spaced doors, each one with a nameplate above its access panel. Reyes strides past the first few, Jesse glances up in time to see the names on the wall, even though he only recognizes two of them.

Towards the end of the hall, there's a few doors without names set next to them. Reyes taps the panel next to one door and it opens up into a small room. Jesse gives him a look, guarded and uncertain, which Reyes answers with a jerk of his chin towards the room.

"This one's yours. Uniform's in the drawers. Showers at the end of the hall. That's your tour. Report back to mess at 1800 for dinner. Got it?"

"What, that's it?" Jesse crosses his arms over his chest, shoulders hunched, fixing Reyes with a incredulous look. "That can't be all you've got here."

"I didn't say it was all we've got," Reyes answers, one hand at his hip as he stares Jesse down. "But that's all you get to see for now."

"Ain't that fancy."

"1800," Reyes repeats. "Don't be late."

"Yeah, yeah, I got it," Jesse jerks his gaze to the side, refusing to make eye contact.

Across from him Reyes snorts, stepping off to make his way back down the hall.

Jesse doesn't even bother to watch him go, his gaze fixed instead on the empty nameplate next to the door.

Deadlock hadn't been nearly so accommodating. Room and board in Deadlock was a musty cot in the corner of the bunker, pre-packaged and processed rations either eaten cold or cooked over campfire stoves when the supply runs brought back fuel to cook with. Running water was an indulgence. The privacy of four walls and a bed to himself was a luxury.

Part of him itches to slap his name in the empty space as quickly as he can, to find a marker or can of spray paint or something and leave an indelible reminder that this is his. The other part of him, the part that leaves his skin prickling with goosebumps and twists his stomach into a nervous knot reminds him he isn't here to accept any sort of kindness. It reminds him that this isn't a gift, it's an exchange. It's this or prison.

He glances down the hall. Reyes is gone now, out of sight, out of earshot as well, probably. Jesse realizes in a heady, panicked moment that he could run away, if he wanted to. It wouldn't be too hard to find an exit, hack a car and make his way out. He'd have all of Overwatch on his heels, sure. He'd have the omnic's bounty on his head as well, but at least for a few fleeting moments he could be free. His pulse races, breath caught in his throat at the thought.

He could have left Deadlock too, but leaving Deadlock meant a bullet in your skull before you even made it out of the gorge.

In the end, he doesn't run, doesn't do a damn thing about the nameplate. He tears his gaze away, stomping into the room with two determined steps, throws himself onto the bed, face buried into the pillow, and screams.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse McCree's very eventful first days at Blackwatch.

As it turns out, Jesse is more exhausted than he'd thought. The screaming fit turns into hot, angry tears, that ends with an uneasy sleep on the most comfortable bed he's slept on in years. He wakes up more than once, groggy and disoriented at the quiet, at the unfamiliar ceiling, before fatigue pulls him back down again into dreams haunted by gunshots, shadows, and an unblinking black faceplate.

When he finally does wake enough to drag himself out of bed, the first thing he sees is the digital clock set into the opposite wall blinking "23:54" back at him. It takes him a moment to register the numbers, to do the math in his head to figure out what time it actually is, and then another moment to realize that means he's missed "1800" by a long shot.

"Didn't even send anyone after me," he huffs.

To be honest, he's more than a little surprised by it. The short impression he has of Reyes makes him seem like the kind of guy who'd drag you out of your bed by the ankles if he had to, just to keep things punctual. Still, it doesn't seem too far off. No one likes a pity case they've got to work for.

"Guess he doesn't care that much," Jesse says to himself, pushing up off the bed and out into the hallway.

The lights are dimmed now, darker than they were but still casting enough of a glow down the hallway to make it easy to navigate. It looks different than it did when Reyes led him through just hours before. The shadows soften the harsh edges of concrete and metal, rounding them off into something that might have been welcoming, if Jesse wasn't well aware of where he is.

It's quiet as well. Aside from the hum of the ventilation system overhead, Jesse can't hear a sound. There's no footfalls, no echos of conversation, nothing. Back in Deadlock, it seemed like the gorge never slept. There was always someone awake, whether they were drinking or gambling or fucking it didn't matter much. Boss didn't care as long as they were awake and alert on watch and as long as their jobs got done.

The silence leaves the hairs at the back of Jesse's neck prickling. He feels like an intruder, like he's invaded some sort of peaceful space where he doesn't belong.

A nagging voice at the back of his mind that's starting to sound more and more like the omnic from the diner reminds him that he is an intruder. That he's agreed to disturb whatever peace he might find here.

Shaking it off, he makes his way down the hall, but he still keeps his footfalls quiet, an unconscious effort to not be heard.

Towards the end of the hall, he turns and glances down to where he knows the break room and the mess hall are. Sleeping the day away means he hasn't had anything to eat since breakfast, and his stomach is only too happy to remind him of that fact with an insistent growl. But Reyes's earlier words ring in his head more like a warning than an invitation.

"Ain't wastin' none of your precious rations," Jesse mutters, turning to look down the other end of the hallway.

He wasn't paying attention when Reyes showed him the way earlier, but in the dim light of the base at night the glow of the elevator panel at the end of the hall sticks out like a sore thumb.

Jesse's feet hold still for a moment, staring it down. His earlier fit hasn't completely purged the nervous energy of fight or flight from his system. He admits he's curious as well. There's more to the base than what Reyes has shown him, more than the interrogation room and cells he was dragged up from and the cut off little corner of Blackwatch's dormitories.

If he really is taking the omnic up on its offer, he'll need to know his way around. Part of him also chimes in that he's been left alone now, no handlers, no supervision. It's a perfect chance to see just where it is that Reyes draws the line. If he gets caught, he can just play the took a wrong turn looking for the mess hall card and sweet talk his way out of it.

His mind made up, Jesse heads straight for the elevator. He taps the glowing panel to call it, riding it up to what's marked as the ground floor. The doors swing open to a short hallway that leads into an open hangar. Stepping out into the open space, Jesse looks back to see windows lining parts of the walls of the building he's just left. A medbay, from the looks of it, then some kind of meeting rooms higher up. Must be where that Strike Commander calls the shots, he thinks.

He turns back around, eyes sweeping the hangar for some kind of surveillance or security, when the scrape of metal on metal echoes against the empty walls.

In an instant, Jesse's pressed himself flat against the wall of the hangar, just to the side of the door. He sucks in his breath and holds it, eyes flicking to the source of the sound. It came from the hangar doors across the way, he thinks. Maybe an access door opening up. Maybe someone doing the nighttime rounds. He waits, ears straining against his heart thudding in his chest, trying to listen for the sound of footsteps.

What he hears instead is Reyes's voice, calling out over the silence of the hangar.

"Looks like sleeping beauty finally woke up," he says.

Jesse can feel his face flush hot with embarrassment, a scowl twisting against his lips. He could sneak back down the hallway, slip down the stairwell and leave Reyes think that he's been hearing things, but he doesn't. Instead, he pushes off the wall, stepping out and turning to where the voice came from.

Reyes is sitting against the small strip of wall between the hangar door and the side access door in a cheap, metal folding chair. He's got one arm propped up on the back of the chair, his hand dangling lazily down, as the other rests against his lap. The pose is casual, deceptively so, especially when Jesse's eyes adjust to the red light and shadows of the hangar and the sight of the shotgun holster hanging against the side of the chair, within easy reach of the hand at Reyes's lap.

His gaze lingers on it with his approach before he lifts it to look down at where Reyes is sitting in front of him.

Reyes notices, Jesse thinks. His dark eyes seem to pierce through Jesse in an instant, even as Reyes's expression remains impassive.

"Felt like some fresh air," Jesse says with an offhand shrug. Something tells him Reyes wouldn't have bought the lie about the mess hall. "That door lead outside?"

"It does," Reyes says with a nod. "I don't remember giving you permission to leave."

"I don't remember asking for it," Jesse spits back. His eyes fall back to Reyes's shotgun, to Reyes's hand resting still against his thigh. "You gonna stop me if I do?"

Reyes snorts, a rough, disdainful sound that nearly makes Jesse jump in his skin. "I'm not here to stop you, kid."

Jesse frowns, his gaze drawing back up to meet Reyes's. "Then what're you doing up this late?"

"Let me see," Reyes glances up for a moment, drawing his thumb across his jaw in a thoughtful gesture. "Getting some fresh air."

"Seems to me like it'd be fresher on the outside," Jesse says, nodding to the hangar door. Seems to me like you wouldn't need a gun for that, he thinks, but doesn't let the thought leave his lips.

"It's fresh enough for me right here," Reyes says with a shrug, dropping his hand back down as he fixes his gaze on Jesse, holding him in an unwavering glare.

Jesse's skin crawls under it. He looks away, making a show of studying the hangar walls.

In Deadlock he was small fry. A good shot, but a foot soldier nonetheless, no one worthy of the Boss's attention. In fact, he'd made a point to avoid it. Punishments in Deadlock were often deadly, and the high profile you'd get for praise often meant the same thing in the end. He'd steered himself straight to the middle of the road. Neither remarkable nor deplorable, just another member of the gang doing his job.

Quickly, Jesse's coming to the realization that it won't be the same here. Reyes already has eyes on him, and it's not going to be an easy thing to shake them off.

"Seven days," Reyes says abruptly, pulling Jesse out of his thoughts.

He turns, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Beg pardon?"

"That's how long you'd last if you walked out that door right there," Reyes jerks his head to the side to clarify. "You're a good shot--I've got two agents in the infirmary because of you--and you've got a good head on your shoulders. Night rounds come by on the hour. If you took me out, made your break for it, you'd have about thirty minutes on them. That'd be enough time for you to shelter, but you wouldn't be able to last. Wouldn't be able to find food or transport without stealing it, and then we'd track you down, drag you back, and see you on your way to a cell in solitary for the rest of your life."

The angry burn at the back of his throat from earlier returns. It creeps over his shoulders, locking them tight as he juts his chin up in a defiant gesture.

"What's to say I wouldn't give you the slip? Live off the land and make my way hitchhiking."

Reyes pauses, seeming to consider it as he sizes Jesse up. "You might," he admits, "but you'd still leave a trail like that. Kids like you might be a dime a dozen down in New Mexico, but not out here by the Watchpoint. Send out a warrant to all the local authorities, you'd turn up within the week."

"Sounds to me like you want me gone," Jesse says, his pride stinging from Reyes's straightforward dismissal of his ability to fend for himself and fly under the radar.

"What you do is your choice," Reyes says, pushing himself up from the chair at last. "Just make sure you're aware of the outcomes."

Jesse takes a step back, an unconscious retreat, as Reyes's moves to adjust the holster on his shotgun. If Reyes notices, he doesn't care. He brushes straight past Jesse, headed straight for the hallway that leads to the Blackwatch dorms.

Jesse watches him, his breath caught in his throat, before his gaze flicks back to the empty chair in front of the hangar door. The choice is there, laid bare in front of him. He could take it, if he wanted to.

"I'm making molletes," Reyes says, voice pitched high enough for Jesse to hear. "And if no one's there to eat them when I'm done, I'm telling the watch we've got a runaway."

The growl of Jesse's stomach answers the unspoken question for him. His footsteps echo off the hangar walls as he moves to catch up with Reyes's long strides. There's not a word shared between them on the short elevator ride. Rummaging through the shelves in the small mess hall for ingredients, Reyes starts whistling a tune, something older that Jesse can't quite recognize. He shoves his curiosity down, keeping his eyes fixed on the table in front of him. He doesn't look up until there's a steaming plate of bread, beans, eggs and cheese in front of him. The smell alone makes his mouth water, his stomach growling in agreement.

"Looks like I won't be calling the watch," Reyes says, turning to grab another plate from the counter. He settles down in the chair across from Jesse, hands pressed together for a moment as he whispers a quick grace under his breath. 

Jesse's eyes flick up, just for a moment, at the familiar words. There was no courtesy, nothing even remotely resembling manners in Deadlock. The uneasy tension of nostalgia and well-faded memories teases at the edges of his mind. He swallows, reaching for his fork before Reyes has stopped talking. With a white-knuckled grip, Jesse stabs it into the food on his plate, shoveling it into his mouth. He doesn't look back up, refusing to give Reyes the satisfaction of seeing his face.

Reyes's cooking, at least, isn't half bad.

\---

Jesse wakes the next morning to the incessant beeping of the clock on his wall. Groaning, he shoves his head under his pillow, pulling it down over both ears with clenched fists. He peeks out only a moment later to read the time. 06:30. That leaves him half an hour.

He groans, shoving his face back into the mattress. "Just gimme five more minutes."

To his surprise, the beeping stops. In its place, a voice fills the room, crisp, masculine, and completely unfamiliar.

"Acknowledged," it says, "Recruit McCree will be notified again at 6:35 am."

Jesse's head jerks up, his mind racing and his whole body very much awake now as he looks for the source of the voice.

"Who was that?!" he demands, clutching his pillow in one hand like a weapon.

"Good Morning, Recruit McCree," the voice answers. "I am the designated artificial intelligence designed to assist agents of Blackwatch while they are stationed within the Watchpoint. You may call me Pallas."

"Sonuvva..." Jesse hisses, fingers twisting on the fabric of his pillow. "Ya'll're spying on me, ain't you?"

"It is my duty to monitor all agents while they are stationed here," Pallas replies. "However, I lack visual inputs to the dormitories of agents at the Watchpoint, in interests of privacy."

"Oh, so you can't see me but you can hear me. That sure is comforting," Jesse says, his face flushing red at the memory of his fit the day before.

"I am activated only to make access more convenient for the agents within the Watchpoint."

"Well I don't need no convenience," Jesse says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Whether he likes it or not, the adrenaline rush from the AI's wake up call has done its trick. "Ya'll can just leave me be."

"Unfortunately, your rank is not sufficient to override my current commands, Recruit McCree."

Jesse frowns, working his way through what the AI's told him. "You mean someone told you to do that? T'get my ass out of bed?"

"Affirmative," the AI replies with a tone that Jesse's tempted to label as "cheeky." "The orders were given by Commander Reyes."

"So that's his way of doin' it," Jesse mutters under his breath. Looks like his impression of Reyes hadn't been that far off the mark.

"Negative," the AI clips back. "The Commander does not issue orders for me to assist agents in completing their assigned tasks on time unless he has reason to believe that they are incapable of doing so otherwise."

"I can wake up just fine on my own!" Jesse spits, silently fuming at getting lip from a goddamned computer program.

"Your complaint is acknowledged. Please be aware that my protocols dictate that I may override the Commander's orders should sufficient data prove them to be unnecessary."

"Well then you better tell the Commander," Jesse says with disdainful emphasis placed on the title, "That his orders ain't gonna mean much to you before too long."

"Understood," the AI responds. A moment later, it adds, "Your message has been transmitted to the Commander's inbox."

The disadvantage to arguing with an AI, Jesse realizes, is that there's no face to turn to when he feels his jaw drop to the floor in abject horror.

"I didn't mean that literally!"

\---

Half an hour later, Jesse feels like he's walking on pins and needles as he creeps his way into the Blackwatch mess hall. Lekan and Nida are already there, along with a few other faces he doesn't recognize. When Nida waves to him from across the room, he pointedly jerks his gaze away, sulking over to a chair at the far end of the table. There's a pan of something steaming on the stove, everyone around seems to have served themselves at their leisure, but Jesse doesn't want any of it.

He sits, hands curled into fists at his sides, eyes fixed to the tabletop in front of him.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Nida and Lekan leaning in to converse in hushed tones. He can feel their eyes on the back of his head. Probably the only thing that saves him from having to explain himself is the moment that Jesse's been dreading, the arrival of Reyes himself.

He hadn't quite noticed it before, but the tenor of the room seems to change when Reyes enters it. The hushed snatches of Nida and Lekan's conversation are replaced by a chorus of "Good morning, Commander," which Reyes answers with a gruff, "At ease, Agents."

Jesse doesn't need to look up to know Reyes is watching him. The way the mess hall stills, the tension palpable in the air is telling enough. Tension squirms over his shoulders and down his arm. He feels pinned, like a snake writhing in a falcon's beak trying to get away, but he doesn't dare let himself move, doesn't dare let it show.

Reyes cuts the silence, the low timber of his voice nearly echoing off the walls of the mess hall.

"So the recruit beat you all to breakfast?"

"Hey, come on, give us some credit," Lekan says, good humor in his voice. "The kid just got here."

"Is that right?" Reyes asks to no one in particular, his footfalls closing the distance to where Jesse sits.

"He hasn't had his breakfast yet either," Nida adds on. Jesse turns to shoot her a sharp look out of the corner of his eye, only to be met with the imposing sight of Reyes's chest instead.

He jerks his head away, a petulant show, which earns an unamused sounding huff from Reyes.

"Something wrong with Nida's breakfast, kid?"

"Ain't hungry," Jesse replies, refusing to look out across the mess hall.

"If you don't eat now, you will be," Reyes shoots back. He turns back to Nida and Lekan. "Nida, get the kid a bowl. We've got a shuttle to catch."

"Right away, sir," Nida replies with a quick salute.

"What d'you mean by that?" Jesse asks, finally turning to shoot Reyes a questioning glance.

"Headquarters is in Switzerland," Reyes says without missing a beat. "Morrison's going to want a rundown of the Deadlock operation and it's easier to run the paperwork through in person."

"Switzerland--?" Jesse tries not to let the surprise of it show on his face and fails miserably.

"That's right. You know where it is?"

"I know where it is." Jesse turns away in a huff. After a pregnant pause, it becomes clear that Reyes expects him to answer. He fixes the commander with a glare out of the corner of his eye before muttering. "S'in Europe--yanno--one of those countries."

The lip earns him a sigh from Reyes. He can't rightly tell whether it's amused or annoyed.

"I'll brief you on the shuttle. Eat up for now."

"I said I ain't--" Jesse turns back to give Reyes a proper scowl only for the commander to cut him off with a glare.

"You'll eat it. And be quick about it."

Jesse doesn't cow as much as he feels his body stage a strategic retreat at Reyes's words, shoulders hunching as he curls down into them. Something about the bite in that tone tells him Pallas wasn't joking about delivering his message.

It's Nida who comes to the rescue with a bowl full of eggs and some kind of spices that has Jesse's mouth watering almost instantly with the scent rising from it.

"All right, McCree, here's your breakfast," she says. "Better not keep the Commander waiting."

Pinned under the force of Nida and Reyes's eyes, Jesse isn't left with much choice but to dig in.

The flavor isn't familiar in the way Reyes's cooking was, but if Jesse really had to pick one over the other, he'd probably say that Nida's cooking tops out at better than half bad.

\---

The type of planes that Jesse McCree has seen in his life up until now fall into two categories. There's the fighter jets from the crisis, black dots against blue skies cutting across them with thin white lines as they screamed towards the battlefront blazing on the horizon. Then there's the wreckage of the same, twisted wings and cockpits popped full of so many holes it's a wonder they hadn't already fallen to pieces. The first Jesse saw when he was younger, clinging to his mother's skirts. The second he saw when he was older, scraping through the wreckage for guns and ammunition to sell off in the name of Deadlock.

Neither category quite prepares Jesse for the wonder that is the Overwatch shuttle Reyes loads him into that morning. He tries not to gawk, desperately schooling himself to not look like the backwater kid that he is, but the sight of the sleek metal door sliding up, the pristine shine of the Grand Mesa sun against the polished glass of the cockpit makes his eyes go wide. It certainly is a sight to behold.

He doesn't get much time to appreciate it before Reyes is shoving at his shoulder, pushing him up and barking orders for him to strap into the seats at the back of the shuttle. It's not big, barely large enough to seat ten people plus the pilot and copilot, but in Jesse's mind that just makes it all the more awe inspiring. Like some sorta private jet out of the movies. Being with guys like Overwatch certainly does seem to have its perks.

Reyes is up with the pilot, likely confirming their route, before he comes in and settles down in the seat across from Jesse. Any farfetched fantasies that Jesse might have had about enjoying the flight see their way out the window right then and there. His head ducks, his gaze flicking off to the side as the shuttle's engines hum to life. There's no way to enjoy himself when he's all but trapped in Gabriel Reyes's unrelenting glare.

Yet as the ground slips away out the window, communication towers and runways giving way to puffy white clouds and clear blue skies, the silence between Reyes and himself stretches solidly into the category of awkward. Reyes said he'd get a briefing, and even though Jesse doesn't feel keen on reminding him of that fact the silence unnerves him.

He frowns, fingers fidgeting with the webbing on the straps across his chest. He doesn't want to look, part of him feels like it's defeat if he does, but it isn't long before his curiosity gets the better of him.

When he steals a glance towards Reyes, he finds the commander with his head bowed, eyes closed, arms still crossed over his chest. Jesse's eyes widen. He blinks twice just to be sure he isn't seeing things, but if he didn't know better he'd say the commander's catching himself a cat nap on the shuttle. For a moment Jesse's heart thrills, he squirms in his seat, reaching for the buckle on his straps to pull them open. If Reyes is gonna sleep the whole way there, there's no reason why he can't have himself a look around the shuttle.

Yet just as Jesse's nearly got the buckle unhooked, he hears a familiar, sharp tone from the seat across from him.

"Don't even think about it, kid."

His head jerks up, meeting Reyes's hooded gaze with a sharp scowl of his own.

"I just wanted t'stretch my legs." Jesse ignores how pathetic the excuse sounds to his own ears.

"You stay sitting until I say you can get up," Reyes says, lifting his head to glare down at Jesse with a disapproving stare.

"You expectin' a 'yes sir,' to that?" Jesse huffs. He turns to look back out the window at the rivers and plains slipping past them below, anything to be free of the glare in Reyes's eyes.

"I expect you to listen," Reyes replies simply. "Deadlock didn't kill you, so that means you're at least capable of that much."

The reminder stings as much as it rings true. Jesse remembers the careful line he tread with Deadlock, as well as the splatters of blood on the bunker walls from kids who didn't learn their lessons fast enough.

"Thought alla you were better'n that," he mumbles between his teeth, squirming in the uncomfortable grip of the seat's harness.

Something sours in Reyes's expression, Jesse's almost happy to see the grimace twisting across his face.

"That wasn't a threat," Reyes says after a weighty beat, his gaze flicking to the bright blue of the skies outside the shuttle window.

"Sure sounded one one to me." Jesse shrugs. Either way he's still alive, still living and breathing the stale air inside the shuttle.

"It's not a threat," Reyes repeats. Conviction hangs off his words this time. Jesse feels himself recoil at the force of it. Before he has a chance to shoot back with some kind of retort, Reyes presses on, his posture relaxing only incrementally as he leans back against his seat.

"Headquarters is in Geneva. We'll be touching down there in about four hours. When we get to base, you don't leave my sight. You don't speak unless you're spoken to."

Jesse lifts an eyebrow in question, abandoning the webbing in favor of tucking both hands under his arms.

"You treat all the new recruits that nicely?"

"It doesn't get much nicer than that when you're a kid with an international warrant on his head," Reyes says without missing a bit.

"Ain't I the lucky one."

Reyes snorts, his nostrils flaring with disdain, and continues, "It'll be about 8pm local time when we get there, if you don't want the jet lag to get you, you'll eat your dinner then turn in for sleep. Tomorrow's going to be your first day. You'll be in to the med bay first for a check up, they'll see what kind of condition you're in, then we've got paperwork."

Jesse's lip curls in disgust.

"I gotta read stuff?"

"You'll be signing it, if you know what's good for you." Reyes tilts his head up, giving Jesse a sharp glance. "In Geneva, I wouldn't even give you twenty four hours."

Jesse doesn't bother to argue with the assessment. Outside the window, the small little patch of America that encompases everything he's ever known in his life is long gone. Nida's breakfast suddenly feels like a weight at the bottom of his stomach, a regular old chain and ball tying him down to a world so unfamiliar it might as well be another planet.

The omnic never said anything about Switzerland, but then again the omnic had been mum on just about all of the relevant details of their little agreement. The creeping, nervous churn of Jesse's stomach makes him wonder how the hell a bot dealing in black market deals back in Santa Fe's going to find its way across the ocean to make good on the offer.

Not that it really matters much now whether it's Reyes's offer of the omnic's that's hanging over his head. No matter which way he looks at it, both of them leave Jesse feeling like he's been strung up and left high and dry with little hope of ever living a life that doesn't leave him squarely under someone's thumb.

He huffs an angry sigh, his thumbnail picking at the webbing of the straps again.

"Don't sound like my chances are getting any better."

\---

By the time they land, the sun's already dipping low over the sharp, snowcapped peaks of the Swiss Alps. Jesse doesn't bother gawking this time. The sight on the way in was enough to feed the deep-set unease gnawing at his belly. The mountains may have looked familiar, but the colors were all wrong. Vibrant purples and reds painted the sunset where there should have been dusty browns and reds. Neat little rows of clean brick houses with pristine white trim untouched by dust, debris and fallout.

Even though he'd just washed up that morning, Jesse still swears he can feel the dust of the open road clinging to him like a second skin. It's grit in his hair against a city that's pristine cobblestone and clear water. Stepping off the shuttle, he feels the urge to look back, wondering if his footsteps leave tracks of dirt over the clean swept concerte of Overwatch's landing strip.

As much as he's loathe to admit it, he sticks to Reyes like a shadow, falling in just a step behind the other man at all times. They pass other agents in the hallways. Cheerful smiles and clean pressed bright blue uniforms stand out in stark contrast to Jesse's beat up leather jacket and jeans and the jet black vest Reyes has pulled over his dark gray hoodie.

Yet when a few of the agents stop and wave to Reyes in greeting Jesse's reminded that it's not Reyes who's out of place here. The man's whole posture seems to change, shoulders losing their tension, lips sliding into a smile that looks every bit like it belongs where it is.

Jesse finds himself turning away, studying the floor or the far end of the hallway or something else that puts his attention far from the conversation at hand.

He doesn't even put up a fight when Reyes shows him to the mess hall for dinner. By the time he's done eating and left alone at the room where Reyes tells him he'll be staying, he's tired enough from the tension and nerves eating away at him all day long that sleep comes as soon as his head hits the pillow.

\---

Gabriel Reyes is, if nothing else, a man of his word. Jesse's first day as an official recruit of Blackwatch sees him dragged through physicals, endurance tests, and enough paperwork that his hand is cramping at the end of it just from signing his initials.

"Bureaucracy," Reyes mutters to him halfway through the ordeal. He's leaned against the doorway of the small office room where Jesse's making his way through another sizeable stack of rules and ordinances and agreements. "The UN likes to make sure we're all held accountable. Doesn't want us strong arming ungrateful brats into this line of work."

Jesse glances up at him, fixing Reyes with a sour glare as he does. "Ain't that exactly the thing you're doing?"

"Sign the paper, kid," Reyes fires back and Jesse doesn't argue anymore.

Somewhere between the med bay and the training range around noon, there's a commotion from further on down the hall. Jesse catches a glimpse of a broad shouldered, blonde haired man interrogating the medical examiner they just met with before Reyes pushes him around the corner, fit to ignore the whole thing. Jesse wonders at it, his mouth open to ask a question when it's cut off by a shout from down the hall.

"Reyes! I know that's you."

Reyes lets out a rough breath, something that's not quite a sigh, before his shoulders square, hands clasping behind his back and he turns just in time to meet the eyes of the blonde from further down the hall.

"Did you need me for something, Morrison?" he asks, the words clipped and crisp from his lips.

There's that name, Jesse thinks. The one Reyes is at odds with. The one who wasn't going to be too pleased to hear about Jesse and his situation. He schools his expression to a careful neutral as he turns to get a good look at Morrison.

Good looks is probably the first word that jumps into Jesse's mind. If Reyes is all rough edges and hard glares, this guy's like a goddamn angel. Blonde hair, blue eyed, and just as impossibly broad and muscled as Reyes himself, Morrison looks like someone took a character from a comic book and ripped him off the page straight into real life. When people talk about Overwatch being the heroes of the crisis, it's guys like Morrison who spring to mind, all perfect angles and flawless skin.

Morrison's gaze snaps down to Jesse's in an instant and Jesse narrows his gaze. He doesn't care that he's staring.

"Do you mind telling me who this is?" Morrison asks, cutting to the chase as he looks back up to Reyes. "Pallas told me there was a new agent on file today, but I don't remember seeing anyone come onto the Watchpoint through recruitment."

"That's because he didn't come through recruitment," Reyes replies. He shrugs one shoulder lightly, a surprisingly casual gesture despite the tension in his posture at the moment. "I picked him up in New Mexico."

There's a furrow to Morrison's brow and a beat of silence between them before he puts the pieces together. "Deadlock? Reyes, we've discussed this before. Recruitment by coercive means--"

"--Strictly forbidden, I got that," Reyes lifts a hand to wave the complaint away. "You don't need to worry about this one."

He claps a hand down on Jesse's shoulder. Jesse doesn't need to think twice to know that the force behind it serves as a warning.

"Introduce yourself to the Strike Commander, Recruit."

There's a moment where Jesse thinks about the merit of telling Morrison the truth, of fighting against Reyes's wishes in the same way that Reyes has been dragging him kicking and screaming against his own. But there's also something that's just all-too-perfect about the look in Morrison's eyes, the clean line of his jaw and the crisp press of his uniform that urges Jesse to make his life hell.

"Jesse McCree," he says, chin jerking up. "I ran with Deadlock since they picked me up a couple years ago."

"And your reason for joining us?" Morrison's tone is decisive, softer than Reyes but no less imposing.

Jesse answers it with a languid shrug of his shoulders, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops with no care for poise or decorum.

"Gabi here said I was a good shot. Bein' on the right side of the trigger sounded better to me than being on the wrong side of the bars, if you follow me."

Jesse catches the confused look Morrison shoots to Reyes at the nickname before Reyes's palm makes contact with the back of his head, hard enough to get the point across without making him fall flat on his face.

"Show some respect."

Jesse jerks back up with a scowl, one hand brushing against his injured head.

"I was just tellin' it like it was. Ain't that the gist of it?"

"Enough," Morrison silences them both with a word, his pretty little face twisted up in an expression that Jesse can't rightly pin down.

Reyes shifts beside him, arms crossing over his chest again. "Will that be all, Morrison?"

"Not yet," Morrison says, waving a hand at him, his attention back on Jesse now. "Deadlock taught you how to shoot?"

"Didn't need no one to teach me how to shoot," Jesse quips back with a scowl. "Ya'll left Santa Fe in a pretty bad way after the Crisis. They just gave me a gun that worked."

There's a calculating look to Morrison's gaze now, one that seems to look straight past Jesse, seeing something else in his place. When he speaks again it's with an unexpected weight.

"How old were you when Deadlock picked you up?"

"Twelve," Jesse answers, unflinching.

He can see the curse that rises unspoken on Morrison's lips before the man clamps down on it, his jaw tight.

"How many years ago was that?"

"Let's see," Jesse glances up in a show for a moment before he meets Morrison's gaze again, defiant tension electric under his skin. "I'd say it's been about five now."

"Jesus christ," the curse escapes this time. Jesse feels almost proud for it, but the pride slips away when it's Reyes who Morrison looks to, his features contorted in a stone-faced scowl. "You brought a kid into Blackwatch, Reyes?"

The air charges with accusation. Next to Jesse, Reyes straightens, fingertips digging into the muscle of his arms.

"I brought a recruit in, Strike Commander. Do you have any issues with that?"

"Seventeen isn't a recruit," Morrison fires back. "He's not even an adult. You could have found him a place in foster care, some family to take him in. Did you even put that option on the table?"

"No sir," Reyes answers, the words as sharp as any knife. "The last time I checked, when you've got a seventeen year old who's been charged with kidnapping, disassembly of omnics, trafficking parts, trafficking drugs, illegal weapons trade, and racketeering the courts seem to call that an adult."

Morrison's eyes narrow, sharp blue flicking down to where Jesse stands at Reyes's side. Morrison sees him this time, Jesse thinks, he can see the way the Strike Commander's gaze takes him in, really looking at him. Looking at the scuffed leather and torn denim, the full picture of some seventeen year old sharp shooting brat picked up from the desert in New Mexico.

The look of it churns Jesse's guts. He wants to shout back that he doesn't need any goddamn pity, but the moment passes when Morrison turns back to Reyes, some of the tension slipping away from his shoulders.

"You're stationing him here for training?" he asks, conceding Reyes's point in his tone.

"That's right," Reyes answers. "He'll learn some manners too."

Morrison laughs, a short, rough sound that shakes the rest of the tension from his shoulders. "You might want to find a better instructor for that."

"I'll keep the suggestion in mind," Reyes says. Jesse doesn't need to steal a glance at his face to hear the edges of the smile in his words. "Will that be all, Morrison?"

"That's all," Morrison waves the matter away with one hand, standing straighter again. "I'll see you at the debrief on Deadlock tomorrow."

"Right," Reyes nods, clapping a hand to Jesse's back to push him down the hallway. "See you then."

There's a noticeable change in Reyes's demeanor as they make their way back towards the mess hall, and it only seems to feed the sour taste at the back of Jesse's mouth. The man's step is lighter, the hand at Jesse's back relaxed. It's unnerving to him, the way that the tension between Reyes and Morrison that was so charged in one moment slipped away into nothing in the next.

Reyes had defied an order in taking him in, that much is obvious. If this was Deadlock, that would mean either Jesse's blood or Reyes's would have to pay, or possibly both. Yet Reyes came away from it unscathed. What's more, he'd pulled Morrison around to his side without much effort at all. Jesse just can't make sense of it though.

Where did a man that led an international black ops organization like Blackwatch, a man who'd blow the faces of guys like Donovan to pieces to pieces get off making exceptions for someone like Jesse McCree? Jesse isn't one for pity, just the thought of it makes a twitching discomfort run across the back of his shoulders, his hackles raising. He's survived this long without anyone's pity, and he isn't about to start.

What Reyes shows him doesn't smack of pity in any of the ways that Jesse is familiar with, but he can't quite put a name to what it is either. The feeling gnaws at him until he's halfway through dinner, shoving diced potatoes around on his plate just so he doesn't have to put them in his mouth.

Reyes tolerates it for all of thirty seconds before he puts his own fork down, leveling a sharp glare at Jesse.

"If you're not going to eat it, stop messing with it," he says.

Jesse recoils, caught in the act but unwilling to face up to it. His fork stills as his gaze wanders off to the side, the unsettling feeling still twisting his thoughts into a disorderly mess.

When Jesse doesn't speak up, Reyes sighs. He leans back, arms crossed over his chest in an expression that Jesse's quickly learning isn't exactly disapproving, but isn't easy to pin down either.

"You've got something on your mind," he says. "You've clammed up ever since we ran into Morrison."

"Have not," Jesse protests weakly, even though it's a lie.

"Whatever, kid," Reyes says, dismissive. "I meant what I said back there."

Jesse frowns, catching a glance at Reyes out of the corner of his eye. "Beg pardon?"

"About the courts," Reyes clarifies, "and where you'd wind up if you weren't here right now."

It bothers Jesse how the words cut straight through the mess of his thoughts like a knife tearing through flesh and blood. That was what was so strange, wasn't it? The fact that Reyes insisted on having him here, in Blackwatch, over his own wishes, over what people like Morrison seemed to think was the right choice.

"Don't you think he had a point there?" Jesse works his mouth around the words, trying to put the jumble of his thoughts into them properly. "Find some family. Set me up on the straight and narrow. Seems like that'd be the kind of thing you heroes would go for."

Reyes's shoulders shake with a rough, clipped laugh. Jesse can't see just what the hell he's said that's so damn funny.

"That's what you think of when you think of Overwatch, huh?" Reyes asks. "Picking up orphaned brats like you, putting them in some suburban home with a white picket fence so that your life turns around?"

"Seems like it'd tell a better story," Jesse shrugs, lips twisted in a scowl. "Ain't that the kinda stuff they'd show on the news all the time?"

"Being a hero isn't all news clips and headlines, kid," Reyes says without missing a beat. "When's the last time you even slept in a house?"

The question grazes Jesse like the searing heat of a gunshot. He grits his teeth, hands curling into fists against the table. 

"I don't see what that's got to do with it--"

"When's the last time you went to school?" Reyes presses on, unrelenting. "Went to a park? To church? Did your chores?"

Jesse feels his throat tighten up, protests sticking at the back of his throat like dead weight.

Slowly, Reyes unfolds his arms, bracing them against the mess hall table as he leans in.

"When's the last time you saw your parents, kid?"

The last shot hits him square in the gut. Jesse blinks, the corner of his eyes hot and stinging, and glares Reyes down with everything that he has.

"It's none of your goddamn business," he chokes out, growling past the vice twisting over his chest. His hands tremble against the table and he clamps down, holding them still with a white-knuckled intensity.

Reyes doesn't flinch, his expression set in stone for what feels like an eternity before he relents, leaning back against his chair.

"There's different ways of doing what's right. White picket fences aren't made for kids like you. Even if that's where they put you, you'd have walked out that door the first chance that came along. Do you think some law abiding family on the up and up knows what to do with a kid who's killed more men than the number of years he's been alive?"

"Fuck you," Jesse hisses without heat. He blinks against the sting of his eyes again, refusing to look away.

"They don't," Reyes says, as if the answer wasn't obvious. "I do. Blackwatch does. You're a good shot, a smart kid. Someone just needs to point a deadeye like you in the right direction."

Jesse can't find words so he goes for the next best thing, lips twisting as he spits straight at Reyes's face.

Reyes doesn't even flinch. His lips twist for a moment in a grimace, before he reaches up to wipe the moisture away with his knuckles.

"Guess we're done with dinner."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse's first month at Headquarters, the birth of a cowboy, and another meeting with a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated because in being jossed I realized that the omnic character I've created doesn't really need to be tied to anyone in particular so they're just gonna be "the omnic" for now. I've pinned down most of the plot on this, so I'm expecting 11 chapters and an epilogue, which is subject to change depending on if the characters decide to take this someplace else.
> 
> Enjoy!

Reyes isn't at all subtle in the way that he gets his payback for the stunt at dinner. With the paperwork done and bureaucracy out of the way, Jesse's schedule immediately fills with twelve hour blocks of intensive training.

"You might have been good enough for Deadlock, but you're a far cry from being Blackwatch, kid" Reyes tells him the first morning after hauling his sorry ass out of bed at 6am.

Still fighting against the last traces of jet lag, Jesse glares up at him from the middle of a set of pushups.

"With all due respect," he puffs out, grunting as he lowers himself down for another. "Blackwatch can suck it."

Reyes gives out a contemplative hum over him, a sound that Jesse's quickly starting to equate with danger.

"Once you finish up here, it's lunges for you."

"Christ almighty," Jesse curses under his breath. "Ain't you just a regular old ray of sunshine on a cloudy day."

"Then twenty more reps after that," Reyes adds on.

Jesse smarts up and keeps his mouth shut after that.

He ends the first day sweaty, shaking, and far too exhausted to give Reyes any more lip. Hell, it's an effort in fighting sore muscles just to get his fork to his mouth at dinner. The next morning, it seems like every bone in his body on fire, each muscle screaming out individually in a world of pain that Jesse's never known before.

"The hell," he mutters to himself weakly, sprawled out on his narrow dorm bed, staring up at a a pristine white ceiling. "This ain't worth it."

Screwing his eyes shut, Jesse tries to shove the pain aside, tries to focus on the lingering fatigue and the sweet embrace of dreams. It works, after a while, but just as he finds himself back in the blissful comfort of sleep, the door to his room slides open.

"Ah, the king said you would be here," a new voice sounds from the doorway, clipped and sharp as a knife, but in a polite sort of way.

Jesse startles at the unfamiliar sound of it, instincts driving him up hard and fast. He gets a good look at the man in the doorway--shorter than Reyes, but still imposing. Lithe, defined muscles show through his dark gray turtleneck. The sides of his hair are cut short to leave a swooping, warm brown mohawk contrasting with amber colored skin. He looks at Jesse with a curious quirk to his smile, amused and assessing all at once.

At least, that's what Jesse thinks it is. That's all the more that he has the chance to see before his strained muscles catch up with him.

"Sonnuva," he hisses, squeezing his eyes closed and letting his body fall back to the bed.

"Well, he's certainly giving you no quarter, is he?" the man says. Jesse hears his footfalls against the dorm room floor, brisk and even. "Our Gabriel, he is quite the taskmaster."

Jesse doesn't dignify the man with a reply. In one jerking motion he turns to face the wall, curling up in a fetal position.

Behind him, the man sighs in a long, expressive exhale.

"The vitality of youth doesn't seem to be with you, my friend. But come now, we're behind schedule already."

"Ain't goin," Jesse grumbles into his pillows.

"That was not a request, I'm afraid," the man turns the edge of the knife in his voice. "You'll be getting up now unless you'd like for me to tell our Gabriel that you're skipping your training."

"You can tell 'our Gabriel' to suck it."

Jesse rolls over on the bed, just enough to get a good look at the man again.

"Just who the hell are you anyway?"

"It seems I was not introduced," the man says with a light shrug of his shoulders. "No matter. You may call me Gerard. Gerard Lacroix. It is a pleasure, Jesse McCree."

The name sounds wrong with the man's accent. Too round and flowing, stretched out longer than it should be. Jesse fixes him with a scowl.

"Delighted," he deadpans. "Now go on and get gone."

"He did say that you would make this difficult," Gerard says with a flippant sort of amusement. "I suppose we will do it the hard way."

"What's the hard--shit!"

Jesse swears he didn't even see Gerard move, but one minute the man's standing there and the next he's got two fingers pressed into Jesse's side, stabbing into him with enough pressure that he'd swear the man just slid a knife between his ribs. His nerves light on fire with the spider webbing shock of pain searing through his entire body. 

Then, just a quickly as it comes, it's gone. Gerard stands over him with a mild expression on his face waving his fingers leisurely from side to side.

"The human body is a fascinating thing. Our muscles tear and rebuild themselves to make us stronger. A man may know pain, but he can learn to train his mind to ignore it. The simplest touch can set off quite a compelling reaction."

His hand lowers, fingers aimed for Jesse's side again. On instinct, Jesse's hand shoots out, grabbing for Gerard's wrist only to be intercepted by a deceptively light hold and a warning pressure against his wrist.

Gerard looks down at him and smiles. "Gabriel was right about you. You are quite spirited. But although your reflexes may be good, Jesse McCree, I think that mine are better."

"Doesn't seem like a fair assessment," Jesse wheezes out, breathing hard against the fading pain in his limbs. "Seeing the treatment I got yesterday."

"Ah, no, perhaps it is not," Gerard concedes, releasing Jesse's wrist to tap his knuckles against his chin. "But, how should I say it, agents of Blackwatch are not always treated well, my friend. You will have to learn the proper way to train your body if you wish to do well in our ranks."

Gerard's gaze shifts back to him, a sharp edge clear in his bright hazel eyes. 

"Overwatch has many enemies, Jesse McCree," he says, letting the edge shine through in his words, clean and unsheathed. "And many of them would like nothing more than to see what we have built crumble to the ground. That is why it is not easy work that we do here. Do you understand?"

A chilly panic grips Jesse's chest. His throat goes dry at the danger in Gerard's words. Yet he wrestles it down before he lets it show, meeting Gerard's gaze with a surly scowl instead.

"I know how t'deal with torture, if that's what you're asking."

"You learned something like that in Deadlock?"

Briefly, Jesse remembers the Gorge, the sharp pang of bruised ribs and the hollow thud of leather boots striking against skin. He remembers swollen jaws and black eyes, but nothing that would put you out of commission for too long.

"Something like that," he answers, avoiding the question directly. "So what, the boss puts me in a world of hurt then he sends you here after the fact to figure out how to deal with it?"

"Something like that," Gerard repeats Jesse's words with a genial smile. "For today it will just be stretching. Your muscles cannot become too tight, you know. But later, yes. I can teach you many ways to deal with the pain."

"Ain't that just lovely," Jesse sighs, shaking his head. 

\---

Gerard's lessons only occupy the beginning half of Jesse's day. Although Jesse feels like a right damn fool twisting his body into strange positions to the tune of Gerard's "helpful" advice.

"My wife is a ballerina, you know," Gerard quips at one point. "I think she could teach you a thing or two about grace."

"Seems like there's plenty of room for new recruits if you ask me. Why don't you bring her in?" Jesse spits back, which earns him an amused laugh from the other man. 

"No no," Gerard says with a wave of his hand. "She is not made to kill."

"Suit yourself," Jesse says, gritting his teeth and wobbling to keep standing with one leg pulled up to his chest.

By lunch time his muscles are still protesting, but it feels looser, warmer than before. He hates to admit that Gerard's bizarre sort of training seems to be working, so he doesn't say it out loud.

"You will be at the shooting range this afternoon," Gerard informs him over their meal. "Gabriel says that he has brought in an expert to assess your skill."

"He just gonna toss me around to every member of the little circus you got going here?" Jesse asks, pushing something that he thinks is potatoes into his mouth.

"Ah, not all of us, I'm afraid," Gerard says with a shrug of his shoulders. "You do not show much aptitude for machinery, so I think that our resident mechanic will not be required. But should you like to build more muscle on that tiny frame of yours I would be happy to introduce you to Herr Reinhardt."

"I'll pass," Jesse says through a mouthful of potatoes and spite.

Gerard only smiles. "Suit yourself, Mister McCree."

They make their way straight to the range after lunch. The doors swing open with a whir, revealing a tall woman with long black hair pulled into a braid against her back. She wears worn leather boots over bright blue pants and a tight gray t-shirt beneath a bulletproof vest. There's two holsters that Jesse can see, one at her hip and the other across her chest. When she turns, Jesse can see a strange, swirling symbol tattooed under one eye that squishes smaller as a broad smile spreads over her face.

The look of her stirs a strange nostalgia in Jesse, nearly forgotten memories of a dusty store in Santa Fe, grainy black and white movies barely audible over the whirr of a generator and a woman with clay colored skin and the same sort of effortless, easy smile. Jesse swallows against the flood of emotion it brings and pushes the memory away.

"Gerard, there you are. I was beginning to wonder if you'd run into trouble."

"Trouble? Me? Ana, you give me no credit at all," Gerard waves the concern away with one hand that flits through the air before coming to rest on Jesse's shoulder. "Mister McCree may be a lively one, but Gabriel did quite a job of wearing him down yesterday."

Jesse shrugs the hand off with a scowl, which only earns a clipped, barking laugh from Ana's lips.

"So I see. It's a pleasure to meet you, Jesse," Ana says, stepping forward with one hand extended.

Jesse regards the hand for a moment before crossing his arms firmly over his chest, jerking his chin at the woman in greeting. "Charmed."

Ana only smiles at him, rescinding her hand without hesitation. "Well, we've got our work cut out for us here, don't we." She turns to Gerard, waving him off in a perfunctory gesture. "You can leave him to me, Gerard, I think we'll be fine from here."

"Very well," Gerard answers with a crisp salute. "Take care of yourself, Ana, Mister McCree."

With that, Gerard turns on his heel, stepping out with another whir of the door behind them. Jesse flicks his gaze toward the noise, just enough to be sure that Gerard's really gone, before his focus settles on Ana instead.

Each holster she's got holds a handgun. She's only a step away from Jesse where he stands, and just the tiniest bit shorter. His fingers twitch against his arm. All it would take is--

"Grab my wrist in one hand, the gun at the hip with your other, then two shots to the head. Am I right?"

Jesse blinks. His fingers curl down against the meat of his own arm, lips twisting as he tries to bite back his surprise. He looks back up to Ana's face to find her smiling, a quirk to her lips that reads more as amusement than anything else.

"Wasn't thinking it," Jesse mutters, turning to fix his gaze down the range at the practice dummies lying in wait.

"I know what it looks like when a man's weighing his options," Ana says easily. "But you should know there's a safety lock on these." She lifts the gun from her hip--it's a handgun, simple, standard issue--before turning it to offer the grip to Jesse. "They won't fire unless you're in position."

With a jerk of her chin, she nods to the range. Jesse can see now that at the end of each lane there's a small, raised platform for him to stand. The surface of it glows faintly, along with two pale blue lines in the floor on all sides of it. Shield generators, Jesse thinks as he looks back at Ana, at the offered gun, unwilling to take it from her just yet.

"You sure you can trust me with that," he huffs.

"Well, I certainly can't make that judgement until I've seen how well you shoot," she answers with a matter-of-fact tone. "Gabriel told me that you were a good shot, but it seems the specifics had to wait until his report was written. You bruised his pride a little, didn't you?"

"Reckon I might've," Jesse answers with a shrug. "Said I put a few of his best out of commission for a while."

"That would do the trick," Ana smiles a little, lifting the gun in her hand. "Why don't you show me what you can do, Jesse?"

Jesse's eyes linger at the gun for a moment, at the promise of at least holding a proper weapon in his hands, even if he knows he won't be able to unload it into anything but the bots on the range.

"Sure you ain't got nothing better to do?" Jesse asks.

"Not unless I'd like to pit myself against Gabriel's direct orders," she answers with a wry smile. "I'm sure you know how well he takes to that by now."

"I'd say I'm familiar with it."

With no way out, Jesse reaches out and lifts the weapon from Ana's waiting hand. 

It's a lighter make than what he's used to. Special alloys are all the rage these days. Though Jesse traded in them during his days with Deadlock, when it came to what he kept holstered at his hip he didn't quite get the chance to pick and choose. New recruits got the bottom of the barrel, and though raids and patrols meant a AK over the shoulders, Jesse'd grown fond of the nearly ancient six shooter that'd been his first.

On instinct, he flicks the release on the magazine to check it, then clicks it back in place before giving the gun a quick, one-finger spin before holding it steady.

An amused sigh from Ana snaps him out of the old habit. His eyes snap back up to find her watching him with a sharp, calculating gaze, arms crossed casually over her chest. She lifts one hand in apology, waving him towards the range with it.

"Don't mind me. Everyone has their own way."

"Ain't that," Jesse scowls, his face flushed with embarrassment.

He turns sharply, pulling the slide on the gun to load it as he steps up to the range.

Sure enough, as soon as his feet hit the panel in front of his lane the blue lights on the floor spring to life. To his back and sides, the air shimmers with the faint blue glow and hum of a light shield. While he's sure it's for safety precautions, standard practice and the like, there's a part of him that can't help but feel the faint blue walls trapping him in. He feels his skin prickle at the back of his neck, hairs standing on end with an uneasy tension threading across his shoulders.

Jesse grits his teeth against it, fixing his eyes on the target drone that's sprung to life at the far end of the lane. Its faceplate glows red, clunky white body lifting itself up to hover just a few feet above the floor of the range, just enough to give it the height of a real person.

With eyes narrowed, Jesse lifts his gun, fixes the thing in his sights, and shoots.

\---

Two weeks into his tenure with Overwatch, if Jesse had to rank his instructors in terms of how much he thinks they enjoy the idea of making him suffer under the guise of "training," he'd put Reyes at the top quickly followed by Gerard. If he had to pick which ones were like to actually pull him out of a bind when he needed it, Ana held a steady lead save for the possibility of a complete dark horse upset by Reyes.

After fourteen days of being driven to the edge by the man day in and day out, Jesse can't rightly say whether he feels that he's any closer to understanding the man. Some days, especially on days when his muscles scream in protest from his earlier drills, he swears he can almost hear something akin to kindness in the man's gruff tone. Other days, when the sting of bile and  the taste copper coats the back of Jesse's throat, even the heaving sound of his own panting breaths can't drown out the volume of Reyes barking at him to keep moving.

Today is, without a doubt, one of the latter.

Jesse's learned quickly enough that slacking gets him no mercy. For every moment of hesitation he shows when Reyes is in a mood like this, he'll pay for it double by the end of training. The best thing he can do is double down and bear with it until the sessions over, even if it means he's left a sweat-stained, panting mess on the mats by the end of the day.

Reyes is at least kind enough to grab him a towel, dropping it over Jesse's face with a grunt of, "Clean up and get moving, kid."

With a groan, Jesse complies, his arms shaking as he pushes himself up to sit and drag the towel across his face.

Reyes is making his way across the small training room where Jesse's spent most of these two weeks, wiping down equipment and settings things back to rights. Jesse's eyes follow him for a moment before he slowly pushes himself up to his feet.

"You know," he starts, a thought spurring him on with his common sense too exhausted to stop it. "That French guy wasn't lying when he said you were a task master."

Reyes pauses, turning to fix Jesse with a curious glance, one eyebrow lifted in question.

"Do you mean Gerard?"

"Yeah," Jesse waves his hand, then thinks better of it when his arm twinges in protest. "French guy."

Reyes gives a stern look in reply. "He's Algerian." A moment later he adds, "You wouldn't get anywhere if I took it easy on you."

"So what," Jesse frowns. "You saying I should be grateful?"

"I'm saying you'd slack off if I gave you half a chance," Reyes punctuates the words with a wave of his towel in Jesse's general direction. He turns to face him, arms crossed firmly over his chest. "They better not be letting you shirk your duties."

"They're a breath of fresh air compared to you," Jesse fires back. Part of him thrills when the barb earns a short huff from Reyes in reply. He's pretty sure that means the man's amused. "But they ain't goin' easy on me, if you're worried about that."

"Good," Reyes says succinctly. He balls the towel up in his hands, shooting it cleanly across the training room into an open basket. Jesse lets out a low whistle that earns him a withering glare.

"I'd hate to have to write them up."

Jesse sucks a breath against his teeth, his lips twisting in a grimace. "Guess he forgot to add merciless the the list."

"'Mercy' doesn't mean letting my recruits fall short," Reyes says without missing a beat. "You should know what that word means by now, kid."

"Oh, that's right," Jesse snaps his fingers in mock realization. "It's picking up punks and beating them into shape, ain't it?"

Reyes scowls at him. "Your manners still need work."

"Strike Commander did say you needed a better instructor there, didn't he?"

"Watch it, kid," Reyes growls, motioning for Jesse to follow as he steps out of the training room. Jesse falls into step behind him, though he can't quite say if it's out of obedience or habit at this point in time.

"Ana's not complaining about you, at least," Reyes continues on the way to the mess hall. "Is she the only one to earn your respect around here?"

The question catches Jesse off-guard. He openes his mouth for a quick-witted retort and can't find one over the way that Ana's misplaced familiarity keeps making it harder to do away with memories that should have been left behind. Reyes notices. He turns to fix Jesse with a questioning glance that leaves Jesse flushed with embarrassment. Jesse swallows against the hot feeling at the back of his throat, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he finds his words.

"Ain't that," he mutters. "Just something familiar about her."

Reyes pauses in the hallway and Jesse nearly collides with his back before pulling himself up to a halt as well. He steals a glance at Reyes's face, just enough to know he's been pinned under that penetrating, all knowing gaze before he ducks his head down in defeat.

"She reminds you of someone before Deadlock picked you up." It's not a question and Reyes doesn't mean it as one.

Jesse hates himself for the slip and hates how easily he's been read. He feels like a worm baking in the sun, twisting and squirming with no real escape in sight. He could lie, could deflect, could come up with a million other ways to get Reyes off his tail, but the exhaustion from training leaves the truth spilling out of his mouth instead.

"Was these two ladies back then, after the Crisis. Ran an antiques shop, black and white TVs, played these things called VHS tapes. They was all old enough that they didn't get knocked out with the EMPs they used to take the Omnium down. If you ran errands for 'em, they'd let you sit and watch a while s'long as you didn't cause no fuss."

That's not what Reyes was expecting to hear. Jesse can see it painted across his face as he steals another glance up from under furrowed brows.

"VHS tapes?"

"That's what I said, ain't it?"

Reyes shakes his head, rubbing at the back of his neck with another one of those exhales that's nearly a laugh.

"You're caught up on your classics, huh."

"I seen a good number of em," Jesse shrugs, grateful that Reyes doesn't seem to be interested in probing elsewhere. "Magnificent Seven, Fistful of Dollars," he turns his gaze back to Reyes, cocking one eyebrow up, "High Noon."

"Spaghetti Westerns, huh?" There's a quirk to Reyes's lips now, a shadow of a smile.

"That's just what they had," Jesse fires back. "White boxes with blue and yellows labels. They had others too, comedies, dramas, you know. Those one were just better than all of that."

"Cowboys, then." Reyes draws his hand down across his jaw, thumbing at the stubble growing in there.

"You got a problem with cowboys?" Jesse asks, shooting him a nasty look.

"Nah," Reyes waves the concern away with a hand. "Sometimes you need to take the law into your own hands."

Jesse's dumbfounded by frankness in Reyes's voice, the words turning over in his head. Before he can put them into place, Reyes's hand falls against his shoulder, pushing him forward into the mess hall.

"Come on, kid. Time for dinner."

The resounding growl of his stomach, a sudden reminder of how being pushed to his limits day in and day isn't exactly easy on the appetite, quickly drowns all other thoughts out.

\---

It's only a few weeks later that Reyes drops another surprise on Jesse, literally. Jesse's sitting at the mess hall one morning, pushing a plate of fried eggs into his face, when the next thing he knows there's a brown felted brim blocking out half his view of the room. The hours of training with Gerard and Ana which have honed his reflexes to an art, which leaves him twisting in his seat without a moment's hesitation, his fingertips just barely brushing against Reyes's wrist as the man pulls his hand away.

Jesse blinks, stares. If he didn't know any better he'd swear that Reyes was smiling at him.

"Looks like it fits," Reyes says.

"Excuse me?" Jesse stammers out, one hand falling down over the hat on his head. The felt under his fingers feels impossibly soft and definitely expensive. 

"The hat. What did you think I was talking about?"

"I...don't know?" Every part of Jesse's mind is racing, trying to find some explanation, some reason for the sudden gift. His eyes narrow as he takes in Reyes in front of him.

"What's the catch?"

Reyes hums, arms crossing over his chest.

"Still haven't learned to say thank you, huh."

"I like to know what I'm thanking someone for," Jesse juts his chin up at Reyes. The hat holds in place. It really is a good fit.

"The hat," Reyes says again, the words blunt with their force. "There's no strings attached to it, kid."

"That's what you say," Jesse grouses. His fingers rub lightly against the brim of the hat, just to feel the texture beneath them.

"And I mean it." Reyes straightens up, an indication that there's no more to be said on the subject. "You're free for the day. There's a bus loading up at 10:00. If you want on it, get on it. It'll drop you downtown. The driver's got your stipend for lunch. Bus picks back up at 17:00. If I don't see you back for mess at 18:00, the search crews go out."

Jesse blinks once, processing the information before his brows draw together, regarding Reyes warily.

"Ain't that some special treatment."

"You're not getting special treatment," Reyes says with a flat tone. "If an agent goes missing, I make it a point to know where they went. Understood?

"Yes sir," Jesse quips, pulling his hand away from the hat.

"Good," Reyes nods once, satisfied, before turning to leave the mess hall.

Jesse watches him from under the brim of the hat, for a moment before he sees the attention he's gathered from the other agents around. With a scowl, he pushes himself up from the table, grabbing his half eaten breakfast and beating a hasty retreat from the hall.

"Never asked him for a damn hat," he mutters under his breath, fidgeting with it as he makes his way to his room.

Although the thought of staying in just to spite Reyes and his offer seems appealing at first, in the end, being held on a tight leash for over a month means Jesse's itching to stretch his legs a little. He shows up to the bus at 09:55, the hat on his head, dressed in the worn out blue jeans, leather jacket, and t-shirt he was brought in with. The jeans and t-shirt have seen a wash since then, but wear and tear doesn't exactly go away with a run through the cycle.

The driver's an agent that Jesse's seen around base a time or two, a stocky older man with hooded eyes and a thinning patch of jet black hair on his head. He lifts an eyebrow when he sees Jesse approach, but offers no comment.

Jesse nods to him, a stilted gesture, offering a muttered, "Howdy," under his breath before he pulls himself up onto the bus.

The ride into town is thankfully as quick as it is quiet. Jesse slots himself into a seat at the back of the bus, arms crossed over his chest, head turned deliberately to watch the road slip by out the window. Headquarters is tucked just a little ways up in the mountains, far enough away to keep things secure but close enough that it's convenient when dignitaries need to stop by and pay a visit, or so Jesse's learned. It means Jesse's treated to the sight of snow capped mountains and a clear blue sky reflecting off the lake at the far end of town before rows of houses, office buildings, and apartment complexes start to take their place.

When the bus stops, he only sticks around for long enough to grab his stipend before booking it as far away as he can get from the other agents there with him. The city is no less disorienting to him on the ground as it was from the sky. The air he breathes is crisp, too fresh. There's no grit or taste of dust on it, even in a city this size. Walking down the streets, he passes by countless cafes and little boutique shops. More than a handful of them seem to show their age, with brick walls and little metal plaques cheerfully declaring the generations of legacy held in a single building. As far as Jesse looks, he can't see a single one of them that looks like it's been battered or beaten down, bombed or built back from nothing.

It goes to figure, he thinks, that the Crisis wouldn't have hit too hard in a place that Overwatch calls its home.

By the time the afternoon rolls around, Jesse's had enough of the "quaintness" of the whole damn place. He saunters back to where the bus dropped him off that morning, finds the emptiest restaurant in sight and settles down for a bite to eat. It's at least a blessing that most of the locals seem to know how to speak English, since Jesse himself doesn't know a lick of any other tongue. Even still, Jesse can't quite make heads or tails of the menu, tossing it down in defeat after a moment's perusal and asking the waiter for "whatever's good."

He's halfway through picking at the strange hash brown pancake that came with his meat and mushrooms when someone takes it upon themselves to occupy the empty seat at his table.

Jesse's lip curls in annoyance, if it's one of those other agents trying to make nice he doesn't want any part of it, but when his head jerks up to regard his new companion the protest quickly dies on his lips.

"Hello, Jesse McCree," the omnic says from across the table, in English this time. The beat up black serape from before is gone, replaced with a simple black turtleneck, edged with a bright red piping along its seams. It suits the atmosphere far better than Jesse's get up, he has to admit.

It takes Jesse a moment to find his breath, his eyebrows shooting up under the brim of his hat as he leans back in his chair.

"Well now," he breathes out, "Ain't this a surprise."

"Did you think that I would forget about you?" it asks, lacing its fingers together against the table.

"I was hoping you wouldn't," Jesse says, scanning the restaurant quickly to make sure none of the other agents are present. Satisfied, he turns his attention back to the omnic. "You still owe me, you know."

"Only after you complete a job for me," the omnic reminds him, the tenor of its voice exceedingly pleasant. "Your recruitment was only the first step."

"I gathered." Jesse lets out a soft snort. He spreads both hands open in a magnanimous gesture, fixing the omnic with a lopsided grin. "I didn't let you down, did I? You're looking at the newest member of Blackwatch right here."

There's a humming sound from the omnic, something that's almost what you would expect from a person turning over a thought, but from the machine just sounds downright creepy.

"Congratulations," it says after a moment. "Does that mean that you're ready to proceed to the second step?"

Jesse shrugs, hunkering back down in his seat to jab a fork into a mushroom on his plate. "If it gets me done with this whole mess faster, I'm all ears."

"You won't need to listen to much," the omnic replies. It unfolds its hands from where they rest on the table, producing a miniscule black memory stick from seemingly out of nowhere. "All you need to do is connect this to Overwatch's systems. My program will do the rest."

Jesse lifts an eyebrow at the tiny device, taking a moment to chew and swallow down his bite of mushroom. "You know I don't know if anyone's told you, but that ain't exactly easy work. They got an AI system hooked up in there, got its eyes on everything."

"Then ask it to look elsewhere," the omnic says simply, in a tone that distinctly makes Jesse feel like he's being treated as a child. "We are aware of the specifications of their system. This program has been designed to evade its notice."

He scowls, setting his fork down on the table with a deliberate motion.

"And what if your 'program' don't work? You telling me they won't figure out who put it there? Everything you offered ain't much to me if I get ratted out as a snitch."

"My program will work," the omnic says with a shrug. "No one knows a machine better than a machine. Your role in this is also not to be compromised. Do you think it would be easier for us if they found out so quickly that we had planted a spy in their ranks?"

"Maybe not," Jesse frowns, rolling the words on his lips.

"That's why I ask for your discretion, Jesse McCree," the omnic says simply. "The AI cannot watch you at all times. A place like Overwatch that prides itself on freedom would pride itself on the privacy of its members as well."

"All right, all right, you made your point," Jesse says, reaching out to slip the stick into his pocket. "I'll get it in for you, happy?"

"Your cooperation is greatly appreciated," the omnic replies with mechanical levity.

"Ain't it just," Jesse says, picking up his fork and looking down to his lunch again. He talks around a mouthful of potatoes and meat, not caring to show manners to an omnic. "Though you might wanna exercise some discretion 'round these parts. I ain't the only one who came down..."

He flicks his gaze up, the words trailing away when he finds the omnic is gone. With a disgruntled huff, he tugs his hat down lower over his face.

"Guess you don't need the reminder."

The rest of his day in town passes uneventfully. Jesse finishes up his meal, wanders a little, then finds his way back to the square to doze on a park bench until it's time for pick up. The driver gets another tip of his hat on the way back, but thankfully there's no other conversation to be had about how his day went.

Jesse doesn't have time to get to his room before evening mess, which leaves the presence of the memory stick burning at the back of his mind as he makes his way down the hall. Strangely, Reyes isn't there when he arrives. Instead it's Gerard who greets him, genially waving him down from a table near the door. Jesse nods to him, his confusion apparently evident by the way the man's face draws into an apologetic smile as he approaches.

"It's good to see that you have returned to us, Mister McCree."

"Wasn't planning on leaving," Jesse replies with a shrug of one shoulder. He casts his eyes back out across the hall, checking to make sure he hasn't just missed the presence of his commanding officer. "Though I thought I'd be seeing the head honcho tonight. Ain't he here?"

"Ah, our Gabriel has been caught up in personal affairs," Gerard says, the smile on his lips is more knowing than not. "He asked me to keep an eye out for you since he will be taking his meal in his quarters."

Jesse lets out a snort, disbelieving. "Didn't peg him as the type to have anything 'personal' to do outside of the job."

Gerard's smile turns sharp. He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, both hands spread open before him. "I think that you may find our Gabriel has quite a few of his own surprises, if you watch him closely."

"That's if you can stand to look at his ugly mug for long enough," Jesse quips back, turning to make his way to the service line.

"There are some who would disagree with you on that, Mister McCree," Gerard retorts to his retreating back. "Enjoy your meal, my friend."

Jesse dismisses the greeting with a wave of his hand. A subtle relief settles over his shoulders, the confrontation with Reyes after facing down the omnic wasn't a part of the evening he was looking forward to. He won't deny that the man's absence seems like an anomaly, just like the cowboy hat. It's something out of order in the image of Reyes he's been building up in his head, but this time, at least, he's grateful for it.

Gerard is gone by the time Jesse makes it through the line, so there's thankfully no one who knows him well enough to eye or asks any questions when he turns to take his meal back to his room. He swears he can hear the memory stick shifting in his pocket with every step. The closer he gets to the dorm room, the more the skin at the back of his neck prickles with anticipations, his palms growing hotter against the cool metal of his food tray.

It's an easy task, he repeats. Pallas has left him alone dozens of times during the past month or so, whether it's in the aftermath of a nightmare or on lusty sleepless nights when Jesse's just needed to beat one off. It didn't quite sit easy with him to have a robot's eyes watching him at those times, and the AI had graciously kept its mouth shut on the subject, but that didn't mean it wasn't making notes. That didn't mean it wasn't reporting back to someone else, quipping back to Reyes with some summary of his activities just waiting to be held under the man's sharp scrutiny.

"Just cool your jets," Jesse mutters under his breath as he turns down the hall towards the dorm rooms. "Just get it over with."

Jesse steps up to the door to his room, letting a low breath out just as the door opens with a metallic hiss. The lights quickly spring to life along with the panel on the wall. As Jesse steps inside, Pallas's voice fills the tiny space.

"Welcome back, Recruit McCree. Will you be taking your meal in private today?"

"Yeah," Jesse replies, setting the tray down on the small table to the side of his bed. "I figured I could use a little peace and quiet."

"I understand," the AI replies.

Jesse gnaws at his lip, trying to find a way to phrase his request that won't arouse suspicion when suddenly the AI speaks up again.

"Your mental state seems somewhat distressed, Recruit. Is there anything that I can do to accommodate?"

Jesse startles, his heart racing for a brief, panicked moment, before he smooths it over, forcing a smile and a casual shake of his head.

"Nothing gets past you, does it?"

"I am on orders to monitor the mental and physical state of all agents and recruits at regular intervals," the AI quips back, matter of fact. "Is there anything I can do to assist you?"

"Naw, no," Jesse waves his hand, settling heavily into the chair set at the table. One hand lifts to fidget with the brim of his hand, the smooth texture of the felt against his fingertips grounding him. Suddenly, an excuse sparks into his head. He drops his hand to gesture, an open palm spreading wide in front of him.

"Think the trip into town today just left me feeling a little homesick, that's all."

"I understand," the AI replies. "Is there anything I could do to alleviate this feeling for you?"

"Don't you worry your pretty little head over it," Jesse says, waving his hand. "I think I just need some time alone."

"Understood," Pallas replies. "Surveillance systems shutting down. Have a good evening Recruit McCree."

"You have one too, pal."

Jesse waits, breath caught in his throat until the familiar automatic chime of "surveillance systems offline," sounds through the room. Even then, he holds still, waiting for the echo of it to vanish from his mind before he gets to work. The stick is out of his pocket in a moment. He reaches out over the meal spread on his table to the small access panel set into the wall, flicking it open with a thumb. There's a slot for the drive there, a hook up to the holo computer on the wall that's connected to the central network.

Jesse stares it down, his tongue darting out to wet dry lips before he pushes the stick into the slot.

"Just don't worry your pretty little head over it."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation with Ana and the end of Jesse's training as a Blackwatch agent.

For the next few days, Jesse feels like a live wire. Every murmured conversation, every set of eyes he catches glancing his way multiplies tenfold in his mind. He tries to drown the worry of it out and succeeds, for the most part. His work with Reyes, Gerard, and Ana takes on a laser focus, the promise of physical exertion and time on the range tucked away from the rest of Overwatch's agents giving him a chance to calm the chaos in his mind.

Of course, it's not that his nagging suspicions don't leave him second guessing and overthinking every expression that they make, every careful glance they spare him throughout practice. It's more that with those three he's acclimated to the scrutiny. He knows what it feels like, and he knows that Reyes especially wouldn't even give him the benefit of the doubt if he thought for a second that Jesse was double crossing him.

When nothing out of the ordinary happens, when Jesse manages a full week without stepping into the practice room only to find himself slammed against a wall, handcuffed, and shipped off to solitary, he starts to feel like he can relax, just a little.

Two weeks finds him back at the comfort levels he was enjoying before the omnic's little visit. Each day after that has Jesse slipping more and more into something that he wouldn't even hesitate to call "comfortable." As much as the training schedule Reyes has set for him is nothing short of torture, Jesse has to admit it's showing results. There's some days when his muscles don't even twinge in protest upon waking up. Gerard remarks how he's running out of pressure points to teach him, and even Ana seems challenged in finding simulations to run that Jesse can't finish with a flourish of clean headshots.

Plus, all performance aside, Jesse's not shy to admit he's caught his gaze lingering in the mirror more than once as he takes in the tone of his muscles. Deadlock wasn't easy work, but the rigors of Blackwatch are certainly nothing to make light of.

Two weeks also finds Jesse suspiciously less isolated around Headquarters, though he by and large blames the hat for that change. Being a sulky teen with a dirty goatee sitting in the corner of mess hall is an easy way to avoid notice, but being the one guy clinging to his cowboy hat in the year 2056 is a surefire way to get attention. Jesse tries to rebuff most approaches at first, but even Deadlock never quite beat the hospitality out of him.

He finds himself relating the story he told Reyes across the mess hall more than once, along with a scattering of other tales from Santa Fe at the end of the crisis. There's never much depth, never enough detail for anyone to dig up the truth, and none of it quite lives up to the battle stories of those who fought the front lines of the crisis, but it earns him a strange sort of reputation and more than a few familiar faces that wave with a greeting of "Howdy, cowboy," when he passes them in the hall.

The first time it happens, he's with Reyes. The tip of his hat and answering "howdy," come on instinct, and it isn't until they slip from his lips that he realizes what he's done, heart thudding as he waits for whatever biting remark Reyes has in store for him.

It doesn't come until the agent's out of earshot. Reyes, turns, glancing behind them, before lifting one eyebrow in Jesse's direction.

"You know Patel?" he asks.

Jesse cough to clear the lump in his throat, eyes darting to the side to avoid Reyes's glance.

"We've talked. Takes his breakfast about the same time I do."

Reyes only answers with a rough hum, appraising. Jesse doesn't know what to make of it, but he sure as hell isn't going to ask.

Settling in at the headquarters also means meeting more than just his fellow rank and file agents. Morrison rarely makes appearances, it seems, and when he does it usually means that Jesse's assigned to Gerard or Ana today while Reyes gets swept away into mission debriefs and meetings. When he dares to ask Ana about it once, she gives him a knowing smile before she answers.

"Being the hero isn't an easy burden. Jack's still in charge of our mission assignments but he's back and forth across the globe answering to politicians more often than not these days. There's still a lot of work to be done rebuilding after the crisis, which I'm sure you know."

"Oh believe me I do," Jesse says with an edge to his voice. He picks off two drones as they surge towards him, imagining for a moment that their face panels hold baby blue eyes and perfect blond hair instead of the usual glowing red.

The other persons of note are a little bit of a motley crew. His first meeting with the crusader, Reinhardt, leaves him with a bruise in the shape of the man's palm against his back that takes days to heal. Jesse meets the mechanic Gerard told him about, a little Swedish man named Torbjorn, one day stepping into the range for practice with Ana. He spots the man sitting amidst a mess of wires, gears and bot parts, as Ana looks on with a chagrined sort of amusement.

Jesse takes one look at the man, cursing feverishly in an unknown tongue as he swaps out the attachments on his prosthetic arm, before looking back to Ana with one eyebrow raised in question.

"Guess we ain't practicing today?"

"I'm afraid not," Ana replies with a nod to the mystery man. "It seems that Torbjorn here feels that the practice drones are in need of an upgrade."

"Feh," comes a spit and a curse from the small man. He levels his wrench at Ana in an accusing gesture. "The self repair system's not keeping up with what you're putting them through. They're here for target practice, not for you to abuse the things!"

"I told you that we've only been using them for target practice," Ana says, lifting one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. "Our new recruit here just happens to be a rather good shot."

The man's attention snaps to Jesse in an instant, his single eye narrowed as he gives Jesse a sweeping once over. "So it's you that's been shooting my babies down, eh?"

"Whoa now," Jesse holds both hands up, a mock gesture of surrender. "I ain't been doing nothing but following orders."

"A sharpshooter then," the man huffs, his gaze flicking back to Ana. "That makes him the Deadlock kid I've been hearing about?"

"I gotta name, you know," Jesse cuts in before Ana has a chance to answer. "It's Jesse McCree."

"He's the one you've heard about," Ana confirms a moment later. "Jesse, this is Torbjorn Lindholm, engineer and weapon systems designer for Overwatch."

"A pleasure," Jesse mutters with a tip of his hat.

"Hmph," Torbjorn grouses, turning back to his work. "If you're as good as what the reports have said, it sounds like I'm going to have to give you a real challenge here."

"I beg your pardon?" Jesse asks, one eyebrow quirked in question.

"Don't think I haven't seen the data from your sessions. Landing every shot you take, clearing the course with time to spare, hah!" Torbjorn punctuates the sound with a jerk of his wrench against the innards of the bot. "You might be good for bots set to mimic human behavior, but that's nothing like fighting an omnic on the field. Once I'm done with these, they'll give you a real run for your money."

"We asked Torbjorn to take a look at the maintenance on the training droids," Ana explains with a sympathetic glance spared towards Jesse. "When he did he came across your practice records. It seems like you've inspired him to make some upgrades, Jesse."

"Delightful," Jesse sighs. If he'd known that Overwatch engineering was run by a man with a competitive streak like that, he would have pulled some of his shots. "So what's on the schedule for today instead?"

"I think it might be best if we leave Torbjorn to his work," Ana says, stepping towards Jesse and the exit. She turns back over her shoulder, giving the engineer a short farewell of, "I'll catch up with you later, old friend."

Torbjorn only grunts in reply. "Go on, the lot of you. There's work to be done here."

Jesse follows Ana on instinct, stepping out of the practice range. He doesn't expect her to let him off easy, so he doesn't ask, but what he doesn't expect is for Ana to lead him into her office and offer him a cup of tea.

Dumbfounded and taken off guard by her hospitality, it's a moment before Jesse even finds it in him to nod, awkward and stilted.

"Very well," Ana answers with a knowing smile. She gestures to one of chairs arranged in the small room facing the desk that occupies most of the space. "Go ahead and take a seat, I'll only be a little while."

"Thank you," Jesse mumbles, settling down into a chair that's too comfortable to be standard issue while Ana busies herself with an electric kettle set on a table in the corner of the room.

Save for the first few days of paperwork and bureaucracy, he realizes the only office he's seen in headquarters has been Reyes's. Sitting in the chair in Ana's somewhat smaller space, he also realizes that difference between the two of them couldn't be laid out more plainly for him to see if he tried. Where Reyes's office had been spartan and bare, filled only with an empty black desk and uncomfortable chairs, the shelves in the back filled with neatly organized stacks of storage drives, Ana's office is warm and comforting.

She has the same stacks of drives on her shelves, labeled in a looping script that Jesse can't recognize but which he guesses must be Arabic. There's framed medals on the wall, recognition for her efforts during the crisis, no doubt, accompanied by photos of the members of Overwatch. She's laid a brightly patterned cloth across the top of her desk with a waiting tea set, holovid screen, and several other picture frames spread across it. Jesse's curiosity itches to know what's on the other side. More of the same of what's on the wall? Family? Friends?

"You can take a look at the pictures if you'd like," Ana says. Her voice nearly makes Jesse jump straight out of his seat.

His head whips in her direction to find her watching him with an amused sort of expression. He must have been staring.

"Didn't want to see them," Jesse explains in a fluster. "Just wondering what they're pictures of."

"Friends," Ana answers simply, stepping towards the desk. "Family." She steps towards the desk, picking up one frame in her hands. Jesse doesn't miss the fondness that crosses her face as she looks down at whatever image is captured there. Something churns in his gut at the sight of it. The feeling smacks of jealousy.

Ana holds the frame out to him a moment later. In it, there's a young girl beaming widely up at the camera, her jet black hair bound up in a golden bangle at one side. The resemblance is impossible to miss.

"Daughter of yours," Jesse says, flicking his gaze up to Ana.

Ana nods. "Fareeha. She's only a few years younger than you, you know. I'm sure you'll see her the next time she comes to visit."

"What, she ain't around town?" Jesse asks, a curious frown tugging at his lips.

"She would be if she had her way," Ana answers, her voice tinged with amusement. "If I had her up here with me, she'd find her way onto base at every opportunity she had, and I don't think Jack or Gabriel would stop her. No, I have her stay with her father in Cairo. I think it's better for her there. It gives her a chance at a normal life."

"What a lucky little lady," Jesse hums under his breath. He doesn't really care to look at pictures of Fareeha's smiling face anymore.

"Her circumstances are quite fortunate."

The distaste doesn't escape Ana's sharp eyes and ears. She sets the frame back on the desk, turning it to face away from Jesse, before looking back to him, arms crossed loosely over her chest.

"You know, despite the time we've spent together I can't say that I know very much about you, Jesse McCree."

Jesse gives a dismissive shrug. He doesn't want any part of where this is going.

"I'd say you know the important parts. You've seen me with a gun, you know where I came from, and you know what happens if I don't stick around here." He holds up one hand, ticking the points off his fingers with a wry smirk writ across his lips.

Ana takes the gesture in good humor, favoring him with a softer smile. "Those are important, yes, but I don't think there's a man in the world who's made up of those three things."

"Oh, if you wanna know what I'm made of I got all other sorts of stuff," Jesse's grin takes on a nasty quality, one hand thumping against his chest. "Got all sorts of flesh and blood under here. Bones too, I'm pretty sure. Maybe an organ to spare."

"They let you keep the spares in Deadlock, did they?" Ana quips back, matching Jesse's levity point for point.

Jesse clicks his tongue, waving a finger at her. "Remember now, you've seen me with a gun. I reckon you know how that fight would've ended."

"Ah, of course." Ana nods with a knowing smile. "A natural deadeye, wasn't it?"

"Don't pride myself on much, but that's one of them," Jesse drawls, slouching back against the chair.

The whistle of the tea kettle interrupts whatever Ana's rejoinder might have been. She offers an apology and turns away to busy herself with making tea. Jesse couldn't be more grateful for the reprieve.

Reyes was one thing. Reyes caught him while his guard was down and his body was tired. There's no excuse to let anything slip to Ana now, but he can still feel the urge of it prickling against the back of his tongue. It's like there's static caught under his skin, just waiting for the right spark to burst out all over the place. Keeping his body still, forcing himself to keep up lazy appearances is a conscious effort slotting right up there with keeping his goddamn mouth shut.

It's true that Ana's been the best to him in these months, and today's no exception. But the smiling face of Fareeha burns somewhere uncomfortable in Jesse's gut. Ana might be playing nice, but what Jesse's got isn't something she'd wish on her own family, on someone she really cared about.

He doesn't say a word into the clank of porcelain and the sound of pouring water as Ana readies the tea. The unease hasn't settled by the time she turns around to set the tray on the table in front of him.

"It should be ready in a moment," she says, finally settling into the chair across from him. "It still needs time to steep."

"Not like I've got anywhere to be," Jesse shrugs, making a point of studying the shelves behind Ana's desk, refusing to look at the woman directly.

"I suppose not," Ana says. He feels her eyes on him for a heavy moment, silent moment. Ana's a sniper, a sharpshooter like him, with a gaze that cuts as deep as Reyes's. Jesse tries to put that out of his head, only marginally succeeding before she speaks up again.

"You know, I don't think a prison escape would be a difficult task for a man like yourself."

Jesse turns to her, staring. He's not sure if he just heard her right.

"Beg pardon?"

"You heard me," she says, with a self-assured confidence. "You're resourceful, charming when you want to be, a quick study and skilled with a weapon. You weren't afraid of being locked up, were you?"

Jesse's shoulders tense, creeping up as he curls in on himself.

"I don't rightly see how something like that is any of your business."

"If you don't wish to tell me then it isn't," Ana says lightly. "Gabriel told me the terms of the offer he gave you. Officially, our documents say that you accepted, but he told Jack and I the full story. You never did say yes to him on your own, did you?"

"If he told you then you oughta know the answer to that," Jesse fires back.

"I do," Ana concedes. "But I'm asking you because I wanted to know if you would tell me."

"Sounds like you already got everything you need to know." Jesse's fingers dig into the fabric of the chair, tensing. The familiar prickle of fight of flight itches at the back of his neck, and he damn well knows he can't take Ana in a fight in a place like this.

Ana doesn't miss the tension in the air. He feels the sting of her gaze across the back of his knuckles. Under a moment's scrutiny he forces them to relax. When her eyes brush over the taut line of his shoulders, he loosens them, somewhat, but when she locks her eyes with his, he doesn't flinch away.

The silence of the moment holds. Jesse's breath is loud in his own ears, ragged pulls through his mouth and nose. He swallows against them, waiting for her to make the first move.

When she does, it's with a sigh and a shake of her head.

"Everyone deserves a choice, Jesse. But it can be difficult to pick between two paths if you've never seen where the other might lead."

Jesse's eyes narrow. His gaze flicks back to the pictures frame settled on Ana's desk. He knows the angle, knows how to shoot it down, all that's left is to line it up and pull the trigger.

"I had a family, if that's what you're asking," he says, choking down on the raw emotion dragging against the back of his throat.

"Most people do," Ana says with a quiet frankness. "We all have to come from somewhere."

"Yeah, well I ain't no different," Jesse spits, curling his lip with waiting lies. "I know what it was like, and it ain't the life for me. That enough for you?"

Ana regards him for a moment in silent contemplation before leaning forward to pour tea into the cups.

"That would satisfy me, if it were the truth. You're jealous of my Fareeha, aren't you?"

Jesse grits his teeth and doesn't let his surprise show. "What makes you think that?"

"My eyes don't miss the details, Jesse," she says, serene in her confidence. "Every man has his tells, even a jealous one. But why would a man be jealous of someone who has something that he's cast aside?"

The kettle clinks against the table as Ana sets it down. She moves one cup and saucer closer to Jesse's side of the table, settling comfortably into her chair with her own.

"Go on now, drink up."

Jesse doesn't lift a finger towards the tea. He wants out of this room, but he knows even stealing a glance at the door is out of the question under Ana's watchful gaze. He draws a sharp breath in through his nose, letting it out on a clipped sneer.

"You and that Strike Commander in cahoots? The two of you trying to get me shipped off to some picture perfect little house like a goddamn charity case?"

Ana lifts an eyebrow at him, watching him over the edge of her teacup.

"I don't think you belong anywhere other than where you want to be," Ana says easily. "Morrison may have thought you a child at first, Jesse, but he believes Reyes was right about you."

"What, and you don't?" Jesse fires back.

"I prefer to make my own assessments," she says, taking a short sip of tea. "Though it's difficult when you aren't the sort to let on very much about yourself."

"Think that's what you call 'prying.'" Jesse thumbs at the fabric of the chair, slouching back into it.

"For me, yes. For you, I'd say it's being 'defensive.' There's something you're hiding, isn't there?"

Jesse swears his heart skips a beat in his chest. His mind races. He has to be faster than her, can't let her read him on this one.

"And if I am, you think I'm just going to tell you?" he says, trying to conceal the truth out in the open.

"I think you will, when you're ready." The easy confidence of Ana's voice isn't the sort that brokers any argument. In the moment, Jesse finds it achingly familiar.

He swallows, letting the corner of his lips quirk in a cocksure grin.

"You seem mighty convinced of that."

"We can't hide ourselves forever, Jesse." Ana takes another serene sip of her tea. "I know you would have found out about my Fareeha eventually, so I decided to show her to you myself. If I'd tried to hide her, I'm sure you still would have found her out. But would I have known? Perhaps not."

She shrugs, a light lift of one shoulder before leaning forward to set her teacup down.

"There's a power in what we share. You can either control what I know of you, or leave it to me to find out on my own."

Jesse shifts in the chair, uncomfortably settling. Reyes told her about the store, about the way she leaves him chasing echoes of his past, he knows it now. He told her about the familiarity, the nostalgia, and now she's packed it with gunpowder and casings, turned it into a weapon turned against him.

"And what's to say you don't do both?" he asks, skirting at the edges of entertaining her little game.

"I certainly could," Ana says, nodding slightly in agreement. "But I suppose I wouldn't be here asking you if I wanted to find it on my own, would I?"

"Never know." Jesse lifts his chin up at her. "You could just be playing both sides of that little game."

"Do I really seem so underhanded to you?" Ana says with light amusement.

"Reckon you'd be doing a pretty bad job of it if you did," Jesse answers, rolling his shoulders in a gesture that he hopes reads as nonchalant. "Shifty types always attract suspicion, you know."

"A fair point," she says on a thoughtful hum. "I suppose in the end it is just a matter of whether or not you'll take me on my word and whether or not you'll trust me with your own. Are you sure you wouldn't like some tea?"

The offer deflects the weight of her words, holding Jesse down with the obligation to answer to it. He looks down to the waiting cup. It's fine china, colorful designs playing around the edges of it. The handle alone looks so delicate Jesse half wonders if it won't just snap right off in his hands.

He looks back up to Ana where she waits across the table, watching. Her back is straight against the chair, shoulders squared. The mark of a soldier, Jesse thinks. Gerard's the only one who's called him out on his customary slouch so far, chiding him for weak muscles and straining his back. But Jesse would have to be blind not to notice the crisp stride of all the agents on base, a daily reminder of how much of an outsider he is in this place.

They'll undo him if given half the chance. It won't be torture, but something in Jesse tells him, clear as day, that they'll get the truth out of him if he doesn't find the right kind of lie to hide behind. If they do, it'll all be over for him.

Jesse shifts, sitting up, letting his easy recline straighten into a mirror of Ana's precise posture. If they play the game, they'll play it on his terms.

"Wasn't lying when I said I had a family," he says evenly, training his voice to show just the right amount of emotion, just the right pitch of wistful nostalgia that doesn't ache quite the way it should. "Wasn't one of those crisis orphans I'm sure ya'll have heard about." He lifts one hand to the brim of his hat, working the felt between his fingertips, his thoughts racing to grab at threads, weaving them into something that fits right.

"Dad worked a repair shop in town. Nothing too high tech, mostly hover cars and the like," Jesse starts, conjuring a father up from the shadow of the man who'd snatched him off of the streets of Santa Fe.

"Mom was at the grocery store. Wasn't anything fancy about it, no high class living, but we made out all right," he says, peppering in something closer to the truth, lending credence to his little lie.

His quirks an eyebrow at Ana across the table, watching see see how well his words fall.

"I'm guessing the commander told you about my lovely lady friends."

"He may have said something about it. I did have to ask him about the hat," Ana concedes. She's shifted forward a little, listening to the tale he's spun. The sight of it sets some of the nerves dancing at the edge of Jesse's mind at ease.

Jesse tips his hat to her with a sharp grin.

"Then I don't need to tell you about that much. Anyway, even for us things got rough once the crisis was done. Santa Fe wasn't top of the list for getting put back the way it was, so Deadlock came in to help things along in their own way."

That much is true as well. Jesse can remember the day he heard the roar of their gasoline engines from the school yard. It was the talk of the town for days on end.

He rubs his fingers against the fabric of Ana's chair, lips pursed as he tries to find his next words.

"Mom didn't much like them," he says, a truth. "But dad didn't mind the business they gave him. Old wheels take a lot to keep on turning. They took a real shine to him, started stopping by the house, told me they had big plans. Not just for Santa Fe, no. They were looking as wide as the whole Southwest."

"And you were quite the impressionable youth, weren't you?" Ana cuts in, her voice appraising.

Jesse offers her a smile, palms spread wide in front of him. No sense in not giving Ana what she wants.

"Guilty as charged. There's not much you can do when you're some city boy son of a mechanic. But those guys, those Deadlock guys knew how to do it right. They dispensed with their own justice in a world without law. Took what they wanted and wouldn't take no for an answer."

He remembers that part clearly. Remembers the shouts, the screams of protest. The gunshots that followed still echo in his ears. It wasn't a lie that they'd taken a particular shine to his little family.

The weight of it settles heavy on Jesse's chest, but he's sidestepped that particular ghost enough times to make it a habit. His throat bobs, one shoulder rolling as he falls back into the comfort of a slouch.

"When they left town, I took off with them. Didn't tell the family, they'd just say no anyway. The old man had taught me a few things about fixing up the bikes so they kept me around for that at first. Then one day they put a gun in my hands and the rest is history."

"And even staring death in the face, you don't regret it?" Ana's sharp on the ask, but Jesse knows the tone. She's just trying to fill in the gaps now, letting the story settle in until it sits right with her. He knows he's got her.

He shrugs, flapping one hand in the air to wave the thought away.

"It hasn't come for me yet. Doesn't look like it'll come for a while either, thanks to the good commander," he says, admiration tinged with genuine contempt rolling off his tongue.

He nods to the picture, picking up the last piece of the puzzle to slot into place. "Think if my mom had been a woman like you, she at least would've understood it. Would've loved the chance to visit Overwatch on my time off."

Ana is silent across from him, processing. Jesse plays at nonchalant, looking up to her with one eyebrow quirked in question.

"Is that enough for you?"

"I feel like I have a better picture now," Ana says. She fixes him in her sights, and for a moment Jesse swears he can see her slip another bullet into the chamber, another shot ready to fire at him, but just as quickly as it comes it melts away into an easy smile. She shakes her head. "Thank you for telling me, Jesse. I promise it won't leave this room."

"I'd appreciate that," Jesse says with a huff, letting the creeping tension slip from his shoulders with the sigh. It goes unspoken that it's Gabriel they're hiding from. Jesse wonders if one day Ana will choose to exercise her skills with that little mess in particular. He'll have to be ready for it.

For now, she rises, taking the full cup off the table from in front of Jesse to load it with hers onto a waiting tray.

"I think that's enough for now, though. If you won't have tea there's no reason to keep you here. Go on and take some time to yourself, just don't cause any trouble."

"Well, thank you kindly," Jesse says as he rises. He puts a hand to his hat, stepping towards the door with a barb tossed over his shoulder as it whirs open. "You know, the next time you want to stage an interrogation, you might get better luck if you try asking."

"I'll keep that in mind," Ana answers, genial, before the door hisses shut behind him.

Out of sight and out of earshot, Jesse finally lets the mess of pent up emotion boil over the top. He shudders with it, forcing breath from his lungs with a sharp shake of his head.

"Now she's a sharp one," he mouths under his breath, stalking back towards the dorms for a chance to rest up before lunch.

\---

Three months in, Jesse's training ends as abruptly as it started. The rhythm of it had always felt a little slapdash, cobbled together, but he'd gotten used to it. In the morning, Pallas would let him know whether it would be Gabriel, Gerard, or Ana waiting for him in the mess hall that morning, and he'd prepare himself for whatever particular sort of hurt was on the menu that day. Jesse's started to make a game of it, a glib question of "what's today's torture, buddy?" when the AI system's alarm rouses him out of bed.

"Briefing on Operation Skylark in Room 4-106, Agent McCree," Pallas replies with its usual levity.

Jesse's mind stalls out. Halfway out of bed he turns, fixing the panel over his desk with an incredulous glare.

"What did you just say?"

"You're due in Room 4-106 at 0730 for a briefing on Operation Skylark," Pallas says, just as smooth. "The briefing is scheduled to conclude at 0900 with all agents reporting to Bay C2 for departure at 1100."

Jesse works his jaw a few times, the usual morning haze wiped clear out of his mind with surprising speed.

"Pallas, buddy," he starts, running a rough hand over his face. "I think you got the schedules mixed up. That don't sound right."

"I assure you it is correct, agent," the AI says with a smug little lilt to its voice. "Your instructions have been approved and certified by Commander Reyes and Strike Commander Morrison."

Jesse shakes his head in disbelief, before the last piece of it falls into place.

"Wait a second," he frowns, pushing himself up out of bed properly. "What'd you just call me?"

"Agent McCree," Pallas answers blithely. "Is there a problem with that?"

"Pretty sure I just 'Recruit' when I went to bed last night," Jesse says, arms crossed over his chest.

"Affirmative," the AI says. "When you retired at 2226 your records were filed as a recruit of Blackwatch. My protocols were accessed at 2347 to update your designation to 'agent.'"

"Let me guess," Jesse scowls, the thought finally working its way properly through his mind. "That would've been Commander Reyes making the change?"

"You are correct," Pallas quips back. "The Commander informed me to extend a message of 'welcome to the team, you ungrateful brat.'"

"Ain't he charming as always," Jesse sighs, his heart suddenly thudding in his chest. He knows it was silly to think that he'd be stuck in training halls and shooting ranges for all of his Blackwatch days. There had to be a time when it would come to end, and it figures that Reyes would be the sort to pull a fast one on him.

His gaze snaps to the glowing clock on the wall. The numbers blink back at him, 06:36. No need to hurry, but no time to linger either. He mutters a curse under his breath and moves to get ready for the day.

It's about 7:20 by the time Jesse finds himself sizing up the door to room 4-106 on the upper levels of headquarters. Finding the room took a few false starts. He knows the belly of the base better than the slew of admin offices, meeting spaces, and situation rooms housed on the upper levels, but he'd given himself time to account for that miss. The thought of what Reyes would do to him if he didn't show up on time for his first briefing isn't exactly a pleasant one.

But even the threat of Reyes looming over his head isn't quite enough to give him the courage to push past the unnamed emotion that's bolted his feet to the floor in the hallway. He's not afraid, couldn't be afraid. He's got a history of runs for Deadlock under his belt, smuggling operations, gang busts, hijacks, the works. Somehow he doubts that whatever Blackwatch has to throw at him would hold a flame to his old work.

It's not like they'd trust him with something mission critical off the bat anyway. As much as Ana and Gerard might be fond of him, in their own ways, Reyes doesn't seem the sort to let something like fondness cloud his judgement. The man's precise, methodical, even if his reasons are sometimes a complete mystery to Jesse himself.

So it'll be easy, he thinks. Walk in the park. Maybe just gathering intel, getting the dirt that Overwatch needs to make a big flashy hero show out of crushing bad guys. That sort of thing. And it'll be Jesse helping them out. Jesse fighting on the side of what's right and good, getting his hands dirty so those heroes can steal the spotlight for making the world a better place. He doesn't care about the recognition, the reputation. Never really has.

"So why don't you just get your ass in that room already?" Jesse hisses at himself on an exhale.

He shakes his head, trying to dispel the hesitation, lifting a hand to the panel next to the door.

"Well now, if it isn't Jesse McCree," a familiar voice echoes down the hallway.

Jesse's head snaps up in an instant, eyes wide in recognition as he finds the familiar figures of Nida and Lekan making their way towards him.

They're mostly the same as he remembered them, save for Lekan's hair seems to have faded into a watery orange and gold color. Nida in particular fixes him with a wide grin, her thick black hair bound up into a tight bun at the back of her head.

"Reyes told me we had some fresh faces on this mission. Didn't think he meant you."

"Though, you know, we haven't exactly had a lot of new recruits," Lekan chimes in with a shrug. "So, process of elimination and all."

"I--" Jesse flubs, momentarily dumbfounded.

Nida steps up to him, giving him an appraising look up and down with deep brown eyes. One corner of her lip quirks in amusement.

"I like the hat," she says.

Lekan nods beside her in agreement. "Pretty good aesthetic you've got going there."

A flush springs to Jesse's cheeks. He puts one hand to his hat, shoving it down over his ears as he turns to punch at the door panel with more force than needed.

"Look," he mutters, "don't wanna keep Reyes waiting, okay?"

Nida chuckles to his side.

"Whatever you say, cowboy," she says, sending him stumbling into the room with a firm slap to the back.

Reyes is, as he expected, waiting for them at the table in the center of the room, a holoscreen gripped in one hand. Jesse manages to pull himself to a halt after only a few faltering steps, but it's not fast enough to avoid Reyes's sharp eyes.

He quirks one thick eyebrow, his face otherwise impassive.

"Nervous, kid?"

"We found him stuck out in the hallway," Nida says from behind him, stepping around Jesse to offer Reyes a short wave in greeting. Lekan follows after her.

"Seemed like he just needed a little push," she glances over at Jesse with a smile. Jesse jerks away from the look with a scowl, dropping himself into a seat at the far end of the table.

"Then he's lucky you were there to give it."

His shoulders tighten as he turns to a holopanel set into the table's surface, tapping at a few keys that dim the lights and bring up the display at the center of the room.

"Take your seats," he says, voice harder than before. He means business. "We're starting now."

Lekan and Nida sit at attention immediately, eyes sharp and focused on the screens springing to life over the center of the table. Isolated in his corner, Jesse casts a glance around the room, his gaze lingering on the door before he turns back to Reyes with a questioning scowl.

"So what, it's just us?"

"Questions come later, agent," Reyes clips at him. He fixes a pointed glare at Jesse before looking back to the information laid out in front of them. "Since we've got a junior on the mission, I'll remind you. All Blackwatch operations are classified under my personal jurisdiction. Nothing I say here leaves this room. If you are questioned on the conduct of your mission by any agents of Overwatch under the jurisdiction of Strike Commander Morrison, you will refer those agents to me directly and you will not answer otherwise. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir," Nida and Lekan answer back in crisp unison. All three sets of eyes fall on Jesse and his conspicuous silence.

The hair on the back of his neck prickles, his throat suddenly gone dry. He's facing the king in his court now. It's a calculated move, it's Reyes pinning him down and showing him in no uncertain terms what the conditions of their agreement are. Meeting Reyes's shadowed gaze across the table, he can see the veiled threat behind them. If he runs now, he won't even last a minute.

Jesse swallows, his tongue thick in his mouth. The tinny voice of the omnic floats through the back of his mind, a reminder of what's brought him here. This is no place to back down, even if he wanted to. But after this long, after three months of grueling work, like hell he's going to back down. His posture shifts, teeth gritting as he squares his shoulders against it all. If this is the game to play, he'll show them all how well he can play along.

"Yes sir," he says, lips curling with a faint smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was supposed to be more with this chapter, but Jesse's chat with Ana got away from me. Next chapter will round out the Overwatch crew intros and should promise a bit more action. I also realized that there were some name errors in previous chapters that have now been fixed. This is what I get for not having a beta...


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected mission and another visit from the omnic.

More than just "cowboy," Jesse quickly comes into his own as Agent McCree. Stories around the mess hall table start to drift away from the American Southwest and Deadlock Gorge to places Jesse didn't even know existed outside of broadcasts and holoscreen specials. Although the first few months find Jesse paired with Nida, Lekan, or one of the other members of their mismatched team on low-risk extractions and reconnaissance, within short order he finds himself assigned to missions higher up on the Blackwatch radar. He learns just what it feels like to be part of a team of twenty sleek, bulletproofed terrors, sweeping in under the cover of darkness and leaving dissidents and gangs crippled in their wake. At first he doesn't pay much mind to the briefings. It doesn't matter to him who the target is, what sort of things they've done to bring about Blackwatch's brand of swift, merciless judgement, as long as it means he's got a chance to be there in the front lines. He lives for the thrill of catching a combatant unawares before he punches a hole straight between their eyes.

It's on a job down in Argentina that his disregard for the mission catches up with him. Jesse's just cleared a bunker of about fifteen hostiles with a guy named Elliot covering his back, when he arrives at the locked room in the basement that's their target.

"Hey boss," he radios back to Reyes, idly wiping a spatter of blood off his pistol as he leans against the basement door. "I'm at the position, you want me to just shoot the lock and we make it out of here with the payload?"

"Christ, cowboy, weren't you listening?" it's Elliot's voice that cuts in.

Jesse scowls, tilting his head as he flips the magazine open on his gun to check it.

"What the hell are you talking about, compadre?"

"Do not shoot the door down, agent," Reyes replies this time, static popping over the deep roll of his voice. "We don't need those kids shooken up any more than they already are."

Jesse's thoughts grind to a stuttering halt, his fingers fumbling against the safety on his gun.

"--kids?"

"I told you he wasn't listening!" Elliot barks back at Reyes. "For fuck's sake, stop letting the kid sleep through the briefs already."

"That's enough," Reyes's voice is clipped and sharp. "Nida's en route to rendezvous at your point. You will hold off on extraction until she arrives."

"Yes sir," Jesse and Elliot reply in unison.

Nida's still a half an hour out, while it doesn't take Elliot more than five minutes to leave his nest and reconvene with Jesse. What that shakes out to is sharing a narrow hallway bunker with twenty-five minutes of Elliot's frenetic pacing, glowering, and muttered obscenities.

"I can't fucking believe you, yanno?" Elliot grates an exasperated sigh through clenched teeth, hands pulling at the short red curls that adorn his head. "Yeah, I mean, that fucking cowboy, right? You fucking get the job done but fucking hell--I knew you weren't paying attention!"

"You done yet?" Jesse exhales, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Elliot's only eight minutes in and already Jesse's tired of the whole tirade.

"Oh, I most certainly am fucking not!" Elliot barks back at him. One hand sweeps a pale and freckled arc towards the locked door between them. "Did you not fucking know what we're doing here? Did you seriously fucking forget the whole reason we're on this job?"

"I didn't forget it," Jesse spits a lie in his face with a scowl. "Just got caught up in the heat of things, you know."

"Right. Fuck that. The 'heat of things.' Christ, you Americans are fucking psychos."

"Well, they did make a movie about it," Jesse hums, rubbing at his chin with one calloused hand. He hopes the distraction will work even though he knows there's no stopping Elliot when he's like that.

"Fuck your stinking classics, cowboy," Elliot spits back. "God. What the fuck was Reyes even thinking picking up a fucking criminal like you?"

The barb stings, hitting somewhere unseen. Jesse breathes around it, tries not to let the sting show. "You might as well ask him yourself," he huffs. "Cuz I've got no damn clue."

"Well," Elliot huffs with a cocksure smirk across his narrow lips. "At least that's one thing we can agree on."

Jesse silently thanks whatever gods might be listening when Elliot cuts his tirade short after that. Nida shows up on time, offering a wave and a smile to both of them before she's got her kit out and starts work on the door.

The time that Jesse has to wrack his brain for whatever it was that he missed during the mission brief doesn't make the wait any better. They're after drug cartels, he remembers that much. Gangs running illegal substances out of the jungle, but with too many ties to the local government for Overwatch to make a move, the usual. He'd tuned Reyes out for most of the details, all he remembers is that they needed to clear the premises fast on entry due to the nature of the cargo at hand.

He didn't think by "cargo" Reyes had meant human lives, yet when the doors slide open as a result of Nida's handiwork, what greets him is a room full of eyes wide with terror, bruised bodies and faces under greasy matts of dirty hair.

Nida handles the majority of it, even Elliot puts a damper on his usual sharp tongue to play nice enough for the kids waiting inside to trust them. Jesse does his level best to keep out of the way, only watching out of the corner of his eye as they load everyone up on the hovertransport back to their outpost. There's a shuttle and a recall from Reyes waiting for him as soon as they make their way back to the small cabin that's served as their base of operations for the past week and a half. Neither Nida or Elliot question him as he beats a hasty retreat back to the Watchpoint in La Paz.

Reyes is waiting for him on the landing strip when his shuttle arrives. Jesse steps off, holding his hat down onto his head with one hand, eyeing Reyes from under the flapping brim of it.

He's expected a reprimand, some kind of censure. Despite his reasonable efforts to keep himself off of Reyes's bad side, he's faced his fair share of discipline from the man in the past several months. This doesn't seem like it's going to be any different. Forgetting what the mission is for means he wasn't paying attention, and failure to pay attention means disrespect which is a pretty high level strike in the book of Reyes.

Yet instead of a curt demand to explain his actions like Jesse's gotten before, what greets him is silence. Reyes holds him in his gaze until the wind and the whir of the shuttle's engines have died down behind them. His dark eyes bear down on Jesse until he feels like he's about to crack under the pressure of them. Tension threads through Jesse's shoulders, the line of his arm. His hand drops down from holding his hat to his head, curling into a tight fist at one side. He wants to snap, to lash at Reyes with some kind of shot but the unexpected silence leaves him mute, his mouth dry and empty as he waits to see what comes next.

Reyes finally moves, his chin lifting just slightly, gaze narrowing, before he turns and lifts a hand, motioning for Jesse to come with him.

"Let's go, Agent."

Silent, Jesse follows.

\---

The silence stretches until he finds himself in Reyes's makeshift office at the Watchpoint. There's a desk, three chairs, and little else adorning the room. In Jesse's mind it echos of the room at Grand Mesa where he and Reyes first crossed paths. The memory leaves a sour taste in his mouth that he swallows away. Reyes doesn't turn to face him until the door slides shut behind both of them. When he does, it's with a jerk of his chin towards one of the chairs facing the desk.

"Sit."

It's an order, so Jesse does. His arms cross over his chest immediately, fingers digging into the fabric of the skin tight shirt covering his arms. There's no sharp barb on his lips, nothing but the static crackle across his nerves from the fear of what's about to come.

Reyes sees it, Jesse knows he does with the way his gaze flicks over Jesse's body, taking in every wound muscle, every tense line of nervous anticipation. It's Reyes who breaks it, finally, with a sigh and a slow shake of his head.

"I'm not sending you to solitary, McCree" he says, grabbing the back of the other chair and turning it to face Jesse so he can take a seat.

"Well, ain't that a relief," Jesse huffs back, shifting with agitation in his chair. "Didn't even know that was on the table."

"It's not," Reyes says, punctuating the words with a glare fixed on Jesse's face. Obviously the words were an attempt to get Jesse to relax that fell spectacularly flat. Jesse's lips twist into a grimace at the thought. Reyes lets out a rough breath.

"You're not facing disciplinary action either," he continues, arms crossing over his broad chest. "Between you and Elliot, you cleared the outpost in half the time I thought it'd take you. No civilian loss of life either. Top marks."

"I know you didn't bring here to pat me on the ass, commander," Jesse spits out. "Just get to the point."

Reyes gives a soft grunt in reply. The corner of his lip quirks by a hairsbreadth, but Jesse's just keyed up enough to catch it.

"You haven't tried to run out on me again," Reyes says after a moment's consideration. It's not a challenge or a question, just a simple statement of fact. His tone and expression remain a fixed neutral as he looks over to Jesse with the words. "You're a trained agent of Blackwatch. I've taught you enough that you could slip the grid if you wanted to. Go mercenary, make a name for yourself, and make a living off of it."

"Maybe I just like it here," Jesse says. He doesn't even need to add the sneering tone to his voice for Reyes and him to both see the lie.

"Except for when it comes to doing the right thing" Reyes calls him on it. Jesse's loathe to admit how close the barb hits to home. Reyes fixes Jesse with a calculating look and presses on. "You got a problem with the fact that you're doing good in the world, agent?"

Jesse scowls back at him. He knows he can't hide the truth so he lets it out.

"With all due respect, don't think you'll find too many people counting murder and sabotage as 'doing good.' Just because you're the biggest bad around doesn't mean you ain't still bad."

"Mind explaining that?" Reyes asks with mild interest, as if Jesse hasn't just admitted to having his sights set on flying straight in the face of everything that Overwatch stands for.

Jesse tenses under the scrutiny, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt. "So it's Deadlock one day, so it's Blackwatch the next. All that heroes fighting for what's right and good just seemed like bullshit. Hell, if you'd take a guy like me in, then it had to be bullshit, right?"

"I don't take agents in on bullshit," Reyes's tone is flat, unamused.

Jesse glowers up at him, shoulders hunched up to his ears with tension.

"Well it sure didn't seem too much different from what it was like back there. Was still killing people, still fighting like we used to." Jesse's lips feel thick around the words, like a last ditch effort to keep them from tumbling out. He stops, swallows against the tight feeling at the back of his throat, and moves on. "Didn't seem too different, you know, so I guess I just didn't realize it was--I don't know. Didn't think it mattered all that much."

"You didn't think it was what, agent?" Reyes prompts him, one eyebrow quirked in question.

"Goddamn, you know," Jesse hisses between clenched teeth. He lifts one hand, dragging it through his hair hard enough to feel the pull against his scalp, shoving his hat askew with the gesture. "Didn't think it was doing any good."

"So you don't want to be part of the bullshit?" Reyes settles back into his chair, arms crossed lazily over his chest.

"I ain't no hero," Jesse says with vehement truth. "I ain't no pearly white poster boy for truth and justice and all that crap. You know I ain't one."

"No, you're not that," Reyes shrugs one shoulder. "That doesn't mean you can't be a hero."

Jesse balks, mouth hanging open before he curls it into an angry sneer.

"You spouting Morrison's bullshit now?"

"At least give me credit for my own crap," Reyes says, sharper than before. "I told you it's not news clips and headlines. Do you think the world wants to see Morrison putting a bullet through some corrupt bastard's brain?"

Jesse shakes his head, cowed somewhat by the intensity in Reyes's glare.

Satisfied, Reyes nods to him and presses on.

"No one wants it, even if Morrison would throw himself down at a chance like that in an instant. But that doesn't mean we let them go. Overwatch can't get its hands dirty. The world doesn't want heroes who aren't pristine, flawless, pieces of art like Jack Morrison. They still need them, though. You think playing by the rules would've won the day for any one of those cowboys you used to watch, kid? You think you can compromise with outlaws and bandits?"

Reyes gives him a pointed look but doesn't waste a beat waiting for his reply.

"I've got news for you, you can't. But if you step off, it just means you've let them win. That's why Blackwatch is here. That's why you're here. We take the law into our own hands. We take peace into our own hands. And we see it through. We get the job done."

He exhales, nostrils flaring with the force of it. Both broad hands settle on his knees as he leans forward, shoulders squared and back ramrod straight.

"I made the choice back in Grand Mesa for you, kid. We both know you've got what it takes to run circles around anyone who comes across you in a tight spot. You shoot like the gun's just another part of you. I've never seen a guy with an aim like yours. But if I just wanted some mercenary hot shot, I'd have started pulling recruits from the black market years ago. Do you understand?"

The sheer intimidation of Gabriel Reyes in front of him tells Jesse to just shut up and nod. To keep his head down and submit. But the spark of a challenge on the air tells him that's not what the man wants to hear. Blind submission will just dig the hole deeper.

Jesse grits his teeth, shaking his head firmly in reply.

"No sir," he says, voice flat. "Can't say that I do."

Before Reyes has a chance to reply, Jesse dives in again, the nagging uncertainty of what it is that Reyes was thinking him spurring his words on.

"You said you wanted me for intel, wasn't it? Get the dirt on anyone who's dealt with Deadlock. But you ain't asked me for a lick of that. Don't make any damn sense to me why you'd make that choice for me,  _ sir _ ."

"That's because it's not about the intel, agent," Reyes bites back. His eyes narrow, lips pursed in a tight line across his face. "You remember what you said to me back then, don't you?"

"Don't rightly remember it all," Jesse says with a shrug. "Pretty sure that 'fuck Overwatch,' was part of it."

Reyes's lips quirk, an amused huff escaping them. "There was that part. The rest was more important."

Jesse frowns, his mind suddenly racing to dredge up his memories from the barren interrogation room from all those months ago. He'd been pissed, scared as hell. His mind was a mess with the omnic's offer on the table, and the unbelievable truth that Overwatch would offer a guy like him a chance to join their ranks. To tell the truth, he doesn't rightly recall what else it was that he'd said.

Reyes reads it on his face easily enough. He sits up straighter, both hands spreading open in front of him.

"You weren't angry because we were the biggest fish in the pond, no. That didn't matter as much as the fact that we forgot the little guys. We weren't paying attention to small fry, the kind of stuff that doesn't make headlines."

With a sigh, Reyes slouches forward again, one hand rubbing over the back of his neck. It's not a gesture Jesse's seen from him many times before. He narrows his eyes, keeping a sharp look on the older man.

"You called us on our bullshit. On what happened down in Santa Fe. That's why I hauled you in." 

Reyes turns to look back at him. From the set of his jaw and the line of his brow Jesse can tell he's not mincing his words now.

"You might not think it, but you've got hero in you, kid. Magnificent Seven, The Man With No Name. You wouldn't be wearing the hat if you didn't think it suited you."

Jesse feels himself flush with embarrassment, suddenly self-conscious about the pressure of the hat on his head, of the mantle of "cowboy," he's earned on the team. He reaches up, fingers fidgeting with the brim before he jerks his own hand away, fingers curling into a tight fist.

"Can't a guy just like how it looks?" he says in weak protest.

"Sure," Reyes concedes with a knowing smirk and a shrug of his shoulders. "If that's the reason why you're wearing it."

They both know it's not. Jesse turns away from Reyes with a huff.

Reyes leans back, his posture relaxing as he does.

"Do you understand why you're here now, agent?"

Jesse works his jaw, the words sticking heavy in his throat, as if speaking them aloud will bring the whole of this crashing down around them both.

"I reckon I got a better idea," he says at length, beating around the point without hitting it dead on.

Reyes nods, satisfied with the answer, and pushes himself up off the chair to stand in front of Jesse.

"Next time I catch you snoozing on a sitrep, you're getting a week of morning drills and mess duty."

"Wasn't snoozing," Jesse protests before he catches the look in Reyes's eye.

"You want me to make it a month?" he asks, one eyebrow quirked in question.

"No sir," Jesse mumbles, sinking back down into his seat.

"That's what I thought," Reyes says, turning to tap the door panel open. "You're dismissed. Debrief's tomorrow at 0800. Take the rest of the day off."

Jesse turns, looking to the open door for a moment before his gaze flicks back to Reyes from under the brim of his hat. 

The look on the man's face isn't an unfamiliar one. Jesse's probably seen it dozens of times already in his short tenure with Blackwatch. The only difference is that now he knows what it means. It's a look of pride, hope, conviction. It's a look that says, in no uncertain terms, Reyes fully believes in him. He thinks his trust isn't misplaced.

There's an easy way to prove him wrong, Jesse knows it. The wild impulse at the back of Jesse's mind screams that it'd be easy, so damn easy, to let his guts spill about the omnic, the deal, the mysterious bug working its way through Pallas's systems, everything. Yet just as he clamps down on that urge, trying to reason with his own irrational resentment, a moment of clarity falls.

Telling Reyes that he means to double cross him would only prove the man right. Exposing the plot to undo Overwatch from the inside means the bad guys are exposed and the good guys get a chance to fight back on even ground. Hell, knowing Reyes, Jesse might not even find himself put away for being a traitor to everything they stood for. Maybe.

Jesse sobers at the realization. Without another word, he jerks his gaze away from Reyes and steps out of the office.

He wanders the base aimlessly at first, until the tumult of the thoughts circling his mind bring him to a standstill on a catwalk over the Watchpoint hangar.

To be honest, he hasn't given much thought to what it means to play traitor to the organization lauded for bringing peace and justice throughout the world. Not that he really believes in that fairy tale knight in shining armor sort of worldview anyway. But Reyes does. Jesse can see that clearly now. For all the talk about getting his hands dirty, for all the ways that the man was a ruthless taskmaster on operations, for as much as he refused to show any shred of mercy to the targets that Blackwatch set their sights on, Reyes believes in the simple truth of doing good in the world.

Whether Jesse likes it or not, he's been pulled in by that selfsame idealism. He stares out the hangar doors, open to the mountain air and the distant shadow of La Paz. He's thousands of miles away from everything he once called home, not just because some omnic in a seedy diner made him an offer but because Gabriel Reyes thinks that he can do good in the world.

The thought of it turns his stomach, the full weight of the choice he's made creeping over his shoulders as it comes to bear down on him. Santa Fe had needed heroes, and they'd gotten Deadlock instead. But there are hundreds of other cities just like that scattered across the world. Hot spots of discord and disorder, places where Overwatch can't do a damn thing but the unseen hand of Blackwatch can sweep in, clear out the ranks of corruption and oppression, ease the burden on people too weak to stand on their own, just a little.

"Ain't that just poster boys and headlines," Jesse mutters under his breath. He leans against the catwalk railing, curling his hands over the cold steel until he feels it bite against his skin.

It isn't on him to save the world, he tells himself. He has an offer. A good, paying one at that. And if years of Deadlock taught him nothing else, it's that the only surefire way to survive is to watch your own back first. All he needs to do is stick to the plan.

Earning the praise of a man like Reyes, earning his trust, shouldn't be a cause to hesitate. If he's made it in good with Overwatch, convinced them that he's on their side, that just means the job's going well, doesn't it?

Yet somehow, Jesse's never felt more unsettled about pulling the wool over a man's eyes. But then again, it's been years since anyone's looked at him the way Reyes does.

\---

Reyes is, for reasons that Jesse only now feels that he understands, kind enough to give him a few days of leave at La Paz. Jesse leaps at the chance to be off base, to be away from anything and everything Overwatch, and especially to be out from under Reyes's watchful eye. His Spanish hasn't gotten rusty, so the streets of La Paz offer a welcome change of scenery compared to Geneva.

Yet it's only half a day of wandering through the sprawling town, up and down the steep city roads and through lively marketplaces, before he finds himself winded and stopping for rest with a handful of something that looks like an  _ empanada _ but the locals call it a  _ tucumana _ . Whatever it is, the filling of egg, meat, and potatoes is enough to sate the growling of Jesse's stomach as he sprawls out on a park bench to catch his breath.

The flavor of it is almost nostalgic but not quite. The tang of the olives lingers too strong on his tongue. There's too much egg, not enough spice. It's the same way that walking the streets of La Paz seems to creep under his skin with an unsettling familiarity that's just the side of wrong. The snow capped mountains rolling on the outskirts of the city scream home to him, but the city itself sprawls too wide and vast beneath them. The air's too thin. The sun beats too hot on his skin.

Jesse swallows against the acrid taste at the back of his mouth, tugging the brim of his hat down over his eyes as he tries to shake the discomfort.

In a strange moment of clarity, he realizes that if he really wanted to prove Reyes wrong, he'd just been handed a golden opportunity. For all that he finds his eyes drawn to the inconsistencies between La Paz and Santa Fe, marking every difference that sets the two cities apart like some sort of unfounded grudge, in a place like this he could slip away completely unnoticed.

Reyes has always given him the numbers. He's made sure that Jesse's aware of how long he'll last before Blackwatch finds him, before his freedom is cut short and he finds himself staring down four walls and a barred door for the rest of his days. He'd meant more than what he'd said about how Jesse could slip the grid now. He'd meant more than the already heavy implication that Jesse was there by choice.

Part of it might have been kindness, Jesse thinks, but suddenly the two days before him seem more like a trial than anything else. An invitation. If Jesse really wants to leave, really wants nothing to do with heroes and everything that Overwatch stands for, Reyes has shown him the door.

Jesse's own words echo in his mind, a temptation poised on the edge of a knife.

"Well hell, what if I like it here," he mutters under his breath, Eyes scanning the crowds around him, milling this way and that on the busy city streets.

"I would recommend acclimating to the higher altitudes if you do," a voice chimes in from beside him, lilting in familiar, feminine Spanish.

Jesse turns, his heart nearly hammering straight out his chest as one hand drops to the gun at his hip. The omnic tilts its face plate towards him where it stands, regarding him with the sort of impassive curiosity that only a machine can muster up. Jesse curses under his breath, falling heavily back against the park bench.

"You get a kick outta sneaking up on people or something?"

"You shouldn't blame me for your lack of awareness of your surroundings," the omnic says with a genial tone. It strides forward, settling itself down easily on the park bench beside him. "I understand certain humans are very sensitive to subtle changes in air pressure."

"You don't say," Jesse huffs, straightening himself up as he takes another look at the crowd around them, scanning for any other familiar faces.

"You do that every time, Jesse McCree," the omnic says with a deliberate weight. "Do you think that I wouldn't perform a perimeter scan before meeting with you?"

"Sometimes a guy just wants to set his own mind at ease," Jesse says, unwilling to concede that the omnic's eyes are guaranteed to be sharper than his in this situation. He turns, fixing the bot with a sidelong glare.

"What's the business today?"

The omnic makes an imitation of a hum, the whir of its processors barely audible beneath the sound. "Your enthusiasm is appreciated. My cohorts and I would like to offer our commendation for your admirable work for us thus far."

"If you call sticking an AI with a jump drive 'admirable work,'" Jesse scoffs. "You're lucky they didn't trace it back."

The omnic shakes its head, hands clasping in its lap as it does.

"I told you, the AI wouldn't find my program. Don't you trust me that much at least?"

"Hard to trust much of anyone when you're playing both sides of the deal," Jesse shoots back, turning away from the omnic to drape one arm over the back of the park bench.

"That's true." The omnic shrugs, not seeming to care either way. "Regardless, I'd like you to do it again. We've learned enough about the AI's decision trees and learning interface that we'd like to go deeper this time."

Jesse catches the motion of the omnic's hands out of the corner of his eye. One moment they're folded at its lap, the next the hand closest to him is extended out, palm up. Another device rests in the center, indistinguishable from the first one. It holds Jesse's gaze for a long moment before he reaches out to pick it up.

"You seem pretty dead set on Pallas," he says, turning the stick over in his fingers.

"Of course," the omnic replies with a nod, rescinding its hand. "That AI guards some of Overwatch's most tightly kept secrets."

Jesse frowns, something about the omnic's tone sticking in his mind. He turns, regarding the reflection of the sun high in the sky off the bot's shiny black faceplate before the pieces fall together.

"You mean Blackwatch."

The omnic turns, looking at him, but says nothing. Jesse's lips curl, the silence is all the confirmation he needs.

"You ain't after Overwatch really, what you want is Blackwatch. The stuff they don't tell no one about."

"What else would we want?" the omnic speaks finally, amusement thick in its simulated tone. It leaves Jesse with the distinct impression he's being looked down on. He doesn't like it.

"Overwatch's operations are highly publicized. Each one authorized by a UN committee, discussed and debated for hours with all eyes watching. There's no way information about that could help us at all."

The omnic leans closer, its voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

"Don't you think the world deserves to know what Overwatch does when no one's watching?"

"That's some mighty big talk when what you really want is to see them destroyed," Jesse spits back, his voice flat. "I don't need your goddamn excuses."

"I'm sure you don't," the omnic says, its voice nonchalant and light once more. "However we're well aware that idealism can be quite persuasive. I wouldn't want for you to forget the reward that's waiting for you."

"Ain't forgotten about that," Jesse mutters. He settles more heavily against the back of the bench, his gaze wide out across the city streets in front of them. "Ya'll better pay up when we're done."

"Rest assured, we will."

"I'll be holding you to that," Jesse says. "Don't think I haven't learned a thing or two about how to track down folks like you while I've been--"

Jesse turns and realizes that he's alone again, talking to nothing but thin air and an empty park bench.

"Someone oughta teach you some manners," he huffs, rising to walk away and avoid attracting any more unwanted attention from curious onlookers and bystanders.

He'd walked his way into La Paz that morning so he walks his way back, step after step leading him up sloping city streets until they give way to the winding mountain road that leads to the Watchpoint.

By the time he makes it back, the sun's already dipping low beneath the mountains, sweat drenching the back of his shirt. Jesse makes a beeline for the showers, but Reyes somehow still catches him on the way. The man takes one look at his flushed, sweaty face, and shakes his head in amusement.

"We've got a shuttle for a reason, agent," he chides.

Jesse scowls, mustering every bit of strength he has to push past him, "Don't need to hear it from you." 

Reyes thankfully does not follow.

The shower and a clean set of clothes don't restore all of Jesse's energy but they do help quite a bit. He doesn't like to think that he's getting soft with the amenities that Overwatch has to offer, but Jesse isn't the sort to take a reliable source of hot water for granted while he's got it. By the time he makes it back to his room, trimmed, cleaned, and ready for evening mess, he's almost forgotten the new mission at hand until Pallas greets him at the door.

"Welcome back, agent," the AI chimes, wicking every bit of comforting warmth that Jesse had found in the shower away like a cold wind on a winter morning.

He braces himself against it, doesn't let it show, a smile spreading wide over his still-flushed face.

"Howdy to you too. Hope it wasn't too lonely for you today."

"I monitor all Watchpoints at all times, agent," Pallas reminds him with a gentle tone, almost chiding. "I don't have much of a chance to feel 'lonely.'"

"You know what I mean," Jesse answers with a wave of his hand. He ticks through the options at hand, chewing his lip just a little before he calls out again.

"Hey pal," he says, sauntering over to flop down on his bed, one hand plucking the hat from his head to rest it over the nearest post. "Been a little bit of a long day. You think you could give a guy a little privacy?"

Jesse knows the AI can't read his mind, not quite, but he also knows that if he lets his thoughts wander to the right sort of thing then the way his body reacts is sure enough to send the right message.

"Acknowledged," Pallas replies in a tone that Jesse wouldn't hesitate to call 'hasty.' "Surveillance systems shutting down."

The chime comes a moment later, a reassurance that Jesse is well and truly alone now. He breathes out a sigh of relief, letting it shake the tension from his body before he gets to work. In an instant, he's flicked the drive out from where it hides in his pocket, pushing it straight into the waiting port without a moment of hesitation.

"That'll do you," he says to the silence of the walls, staring down the flashing light on the end of the device as it flicks from red to green.

It's done, as easy as that. With another weighty sigh, Jesse drops himself down onto the edge of his bed, both hands dragging up and through his hair, pulling it tight enough to make his scalp sting.

He holds himself there, lets tension sing through every muscle in his body until his shoulders start to shake with it. When he finally pulls away, his cheeks are damp, the corner of his eyes stinging. He doesn't pay it any mind, reaching out to retrieve the device and crush it into nothingness in the palm of his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear one of these days I'll stop bumping the chapter count up each time I post a new one. The midpoints of the story have just wound up being longer than I expected them to be. Hopefully this will be the last time it happens.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse makes a few new friends and something more.

Jesse runs a low profile over the next several weeks. He's quiet, attentive during briefings. On missions, he keeps his chatter to a minimum, keeps his shots clean, and doesn't raise any fuss. It draws attention, he's not so stupid to think the sudden shift in behavior wouldn't turn a few heads, but strangely enough there's no offhand comments at mess, no press of concerned questions in the Watchpoint hallways. When he notices it first he panics. He wonders if he's been found out, if it's just a matter of time before the summons comes down from on high and he winds up on the next transport bound for a jail cell in the middle of nowhere.

He's being given a wide berth, and it only takes a single, pointed look from Reyes following a mission debrief for him to catch a hint as to why. It only lasts an instant, but when Reyes's gaze lingers on him it's not with the sharp, furrowed brows that Jesse knows are reserved for hostiles. No, Reyes looks at him with his jaw set, his brow soft, and his lips drawn into a straight, even line across his face.

It's not suspicion, but consideration.

Reyes is smart enough to know their last talk left Jesse shaken, just the same as he's smart enough to know the leave at La Paz was an open door, one that Jesse distinctly refused to step through.

What Reyes doesn't know is that the tumult that's keeping Jesse's tongue held quiet, the conflict driving him to seek solace in the privacy of his room is because stepping through that door was never an option in the first place. In the weeks after La Paz, Jesse comes to realize that the only way out, the only way to make it to the end of the job, is to play both sides.

A spy can't arouse suspicion, can't stand apart from the very foundations that his organization stands for. Against all odds, he's managed to keep his head this long, managed to keep his place under Reyes's strict command. But if he's going to keep it up, he'll need to play the part of the kid who really does believe in how the west was won. He can't shy away from doing right in the world by his own hands.

By the same count, a traitor can't let himself be won over. His job will only end when Overwatch is brought low, when the omnic and its allies tear the whole thing down from the inside out. He can't forget that there's an end to them in sight, that the starry eyed heroes of the world won't amount to much when all is said and done.

Play the hero, Jesse thinks to himself, splayed out on his bed staring up at an empty ceiling. But don't believe the lie that you're really fit to be one.

He steels himself, sets the course in his sights, and fires the shot.

Getting back into the swing of things with the group doesn't come naturally, but it works out well enough. Jesse hasn't forgotten how to be charming, how to spin a tale and pull a laugh out of his companions. Now that he's pulling his weight on their missions, now that he isn't shying away from the vision that's drawn them all together, it's easier to put the past behind with an easy smile and a bit of good natured fun every now and then.

Nida comes around quickly, Ana and Reinhardt as well. Lekan warms up well enough, and even Elliot's giving Jesse the sort of look that says he respectfully tolerates his presence before too long.

It's over breakfast at Grand Mesa one day when Jesse's suspicions on Reyes's involvement with his earlier isolation are confirmed. Elliot's the chef for the day, fixing up sausages and potatoes on the stove while Jesse shoots the breeze with Nida at one of the mess tables.

"You know, some of us were a little worried about you, cowboy," she says, good natured enough in her concern.

"Worried?" Jesse asks, turning to her with a questioning quirk of his lip. "Why'd you worry about me?"

"Commander's orders," Nida says with a wave of her hand. "After that incident in La Paz, Reyes told us to give you some space. Said you were working through some things."

"I thought you were just a fucking pussy who couldn't hack it," Elliot chimes in from the kitchen. "You cost me fifty fucking bucks because you didn't crack, asshole."

Jesse scowls at his back, shouting in reply, "Well I'm so sorry to disappoint, you yellow bellied shit stick."

"Cocksucker," Elliot fires back with a sharp grin over his shoulder.

"Don't knock it til you've tried it," Jesse quips.

Elliot laughs, a short, barking sound that's as good a sign of his approval as anyone ever gets. Nida just shakes her head at the good natured barbs passing between them. "Don't think Elliot's going to take you up on that, cowboy."

"Oh well," Jesse says with a light shrug. "Not my type anyway."

"What, I'm not fucking pretty enough for you?" Elliot butts back in, stepping over to the table laden with his own plate of potatoes, sausage, and gravy. "You saying you don't like my fucking face? I'm a damn good catch I'll have you know. Look, I'm even fucking playing house husband for you sorry shits. Now go eat your damn food."

"Sweetheart," Jesse croons, slapping Elliot on the shoulder as he rises to go and fetch his share of the meal. "It ain't your cooking that's the problem."

"Damn right it's not," Elliot calls back, settling down at the table to dig in.

The issue of Reyes' orders doesn't come up again that night, but it sits in the back of Jesse's mind. He's got the confirmation he needs, the only nagging doubt that remains is the fact that Reyes himself has been mum on the entire affair.

In the end, it's Jesse who breaches the topic with Reyes directly. Better to have the talk on his own terms. He catches Reyes on his way to mess one evening, the two of them sharing an elevator up from the training halls. Jesse waits until the doors are closed before he starts in.

"You know, I heard a funny thing from Nida and the gang the other day," he says.

Reyes glances at him, curious, before looking back ahead.

"What did Nida tell you?"

"Said they got a peculiar set of orders from you a while back," Jesse snaps a glance over to Reyes out of the corner of his eye. "Said you'd asked them to give me some space after that last meeting of ours."

Reyes chuffs, a clipped sound that's nearly laughter but not quite. "I might have," he says. "Are you questioning my authority, agent?"

"Not questioning it, no," Jesse shakes his head. He looks back to the elevator doors, watching the number tick closer to their floor. "Just couldn't rightly think of a reason why you'd give an order like that."

With a lurch and a chime, the elevator pulls to a halt, the doors peeling open in front of them. Beside him, Reyes lets out a quiet hum.

"Sometimes a man needs to sort things out for himself," Reyes says with an easy shrug. He claps one hand on Jesse's shoulder, squeezing tight before letting go. "Glad you're still with us, cowboy."

\---

"C-Commander Reyes is requesting your presence at 1330 in Conference Room I-460, agent," Pallas's voice echoes through the practice range at headquarters one day. The stutter, a skipping distortion of the AI's usually mild tone, is faint but Jesse catches it.

The AI hasn't been quite the same since the last time Jesse was visited by the omnic in La Paz several months ago. Must be their program at work, he thinks. He twists his lips, idly twirling his pistol around one finger before holstering it at his hip.

"Copy that," he says, stepping back from the shooting gallery. "Sounds like you caught a bug there, buddy."

"My system diagnostics are all reading normal," Pallas retorts, nearly accusatory. "I don't know what you're referring to."

"Must've just been my imagination then," Jesse answers with a good natured shrug. His eyes flick up to the digital clock face at the far end of the range. 1312, Reyes really isn't giving him a lot of notice on this one. He frowns, one hand rubbing against his chin as he unhooks the holster at his belt.

"Hey, Pal. Did the boss man say anything about why he needed me up top?"

"There's someone that he'd like you to meet," Pallas replies. "Those are his words."

"Ain't that ominous," Jesse sighs.

"I didn't detect any threat in the commander's tone," Pallas says, helpful. "Although I imagine he will be rather disappointed if you do not arrive on time."

"He always is," Jesse says. "Tell him I'll be right up."

His equipment goes back in the locker and Jesse hustles down the hallway to the nearest elevator. He's stationed back in Switzerland, for the moment, something about needing more intelligence before their next missions and Reyes needing to debrief with Morrison. Jesse's starting to get a sneaking suspicion that "debrief" doesn't quite encompass the entirety of what happens between Reyes and Morrison whenever they happen to wind up in the same place at the same time. The strange way the tension over his recruitment was diffused, the fact that they both seem to vanish whenever Reyes has a day off, and the half a dozen or so looks that Jesse's caught between the two men which don't at all fall under the spectrum of "professional" add up to a clear enough conclusion. However, Jesse values keeping a spot that's at least on the edge of being in Reyes's good graces enough not to press on the matter.

From what he's heard, their history goes back longer than Overwatch, back to the start of the Crisis itself. He ain't about to meddle in a man's past like that, especially when he wouldn't want anyone meddling with his in turn.

The elevator dings, snapping him out of his thoughts of Morrison and Reyes knocking boots with the clear whir of the doors sliding open. I-460 is in the infirmary ward, near the med bay and medical research facilities that help keep Overwatch's agents hale and healthy in the field. Jesse glances over at the exam room doorways that line the hall. He's been around the med bay recently enough, a check up for bruises, cuts, and a bullet wound that was a near miss across his side during his last mission outside of Numbani a week ago. Even Blackwatch agents can't escape regular physicals and medical exams just to make sure everything's on the up and up.

Jesse lets out a hum, striding up to I-460 with a lazy saunter. He taps the release on the door, stepping in when it slides open.

The room itself houses on a small table, opposite a holoscreen on one wall. There's only chairs for about six people around it, two of them occupied by Reyes and a woman Jesse's never seen before. She's blonde haired, fair skinned, every bit as pretty as Jack Morrison, if Jesse had to take a stab at it. They both look up when he enters, the woman smiling up at him with a curious tilt to her head.

Jesse stops, the door hissing shut behind him, before he reaches up to settle a hand over his hat.

"Well now, you shoulda told me you had a lady friend visiting, boss," 

Reyes snorts, glaring at him with a look that tells him this is for business not pleasure. Jesse feels his back straighten instinctually, shoulders squared.

"Don't get the wrong idea, cowboy," he waves Jesse closer with one hand and a jerk of his chin. "This is Angela Zeigler, from the University of Zurich. Top of her class, one of the brightest up and coming doctors that the world has to offer right now."

Angela whips back to look at Reyes with a stern expression settling over her delicate features.

"Commander, I really don't think I would go so far as to say that," she says, her tone chiding. "I haven't yet completed my residency work, and I still have a lot to learn from the more senior members of the faculty."

"Did I mention she's humble?" Reyes says with a shrug of his shoulders. He nods to the chair next to Angela. Jesse sits, settling his hat on the table in front of him. "Angela's going to be stationed here as part of her residency. She'll be working with Dr. Liebert here at HQ to get some experience under her belt."

"Can't say I mind a fresh face in the med bay," Jesse says, glancing sidelong at Angela with a winning smile only to find her attention still fixed on Reyes. Jesse fumbles a moment, clearing his throat before looking back to Reyes. "But--uh--this why you called me up outta training, boss? Just for a regular how d'you do?"

Reyes glares him down with a look that brokers no argument before he presses on.

"You're in charge of showing her around, agent. Make sure Angela gets the rundown on where she can go around here, when we call mess, and anything else she needs to know. Got it?"

Jesse bites back the questions still waiting on the tip of his tongue, swallowing them with a confused twist of his lips before he nods once in reply.

"Ain't got much training as a tour guide, but I'll do my best."

"Good," Reyes sighs, pushing himself up from the table. He waves one hand at the two of them before turning towards the door. "That's all. Dismissed."

Reyes is gone before Jesse can get a word in edgewise, leaving his mind racing as he tries to make heads or tails of the duty he's been given. Angela, meanwhile, has no such hesitation. Her attention finally turns to Jesse, pinning him beneath a determined gaze offset by a polite, eager smile.

"Jesse McCree, isn't it?" she says, extending a hand towards him. "Angela Ziegler. It's a pleasure."

Fortunately, Jesse's wits catch up with him fast enough for him to take the offered hand, forcing a smile to his face with a nod of his chin.

"The pleasure's all mine. I take it the boss told you who I was, then?"

"Yes," Angela says with a nod. "Commander Reyes gave me a few particulares regarding your service with the Blackwatch division. I understand that you work with covert operations?"

"That'd be the stuff."

"The covert operatives aren't normally stationed at Headquarters, are they?" Angela presses on, her lips fixing into a worried line across her face. "Do you still have a working familiarity with this facility?"

"Whoa, hey now," Jesse lifts one hand in a halting gesture, suddenly finding himself on the defensive against Angela's intense gaze. "I'll have you know I did all my training here. It's true I ain't been back to HQ in a little while, but if it's the boss's orders, I'll do my level best to show you the lay of the land."

His reassurance doesn't seem to land at first. Angela's gaze sweeps over him, in some sort of silent assessment. Jesse can really see the doctor in her now. His lips twist at the thought.

Yet it's not more than a moment before a short sigh escapes her lips, the examination apparently over.

"I suppose that is true." She smiles again, all politeness and precision as she moves to rise from her chair. "I would not wish to question Commander Reyes's decision. Shall we?"

"I think that's supposed to be my line," Jesse points out, reaching for his hat to stand and join her. Truth be told, right about now he's got a head full of his own questions for "Commander Reyes" about this decision, but there's no point in earning Reyes's censure over what seems like straightforward, easy work.

He settles his hat on his head, stepping over to tap the release on the door panel. Turning back to Angela with a winning grin, he gestures widely towards the open door.

"Now, shall we?"

\---

As it turns out, Jesse's usual sort of charm and hospitality is completely wasted on Angela. For all that he tries to wheedle any kind of a story out of or impress her with tales of his own exploits, she seems much more interested in chatting about the treatment he received for his wounds, how long his recovery time lasted, and business matters like that. 

Eventually, Jesse catches the hint and cuts the rest of the tour short in favor of sneaking Angela into one of the empty surgery rooms up top in the medbay. Technically speaking, he's not quite sure civilians have access at this level, but given the way Angela's face lights up with a breathless whisper of "Wunderbar" when Jesse flicks the lights he figures he can take any flack he gets from Reyes on the matter.

"This is the real reason you're working with Overwatch, ain't it?" he drawls, dropping himself into an empty chair while Angela flits about the room in awe.

"Why would it be anything else?" she asks him with a stern, matter of fact tone. "I don't quite approve of their military endeavors. Though it's true that as a peacekeeping force they've done their share of good for the world. But this," she sighs drawing delicate fingertips over the steel shaft of some contraption that Jesse's never seen before, "This sort of work is truly the sort of thing that can make a difference for humanity, don't you think?"

Jesse follows her gaze before sweeping his eyes out across the room around them. Facilities like this didn't exist where he'd grown up, and even if they did he'd doubt that his family would have had enough to properly foot the bills. Even with Deadlock, for all the wealth that was amassed on black market trade and arms dealing, for all that the boss would say Deadlock took care of their own, there wasn't exactly much in the way of state of the art medical technology, not like this. Sure, they'd do what they could to keep you from dying with military grade biotics and the like, but most the men and women of the team were more interested in taking an arm off than they were in putting it back on right.

With a roll of his shoulders, Jesse shrugs, settling more firmly down into his chair.

"Certainly is a nice thought, I suppose. Seeing people who need it patched up right and all."

"It's more than just patching people up, Jesse," Angela turns to glance at him, a discerning look upon her face. "Preventative measures are important as well. Mitigating the spread of disease, gene therapy, improved diagnostics. If you allow it to reach the point of surgery and sickness it introduces complexities. It's best to catch disease before it spreads. Nip it in the bud."

"Stop the spark before it becomes a fire, huh?" Jesse works his jaw, drumming his fingers idly against one knee. "That's all well and good, but you still gotta deal with it if some idiot goes and sticks his hand in the flames."

"That sort of injury is preventable as well," Angela says with a thin smile. She shakes her head, letting out a soft, resigned sort of sigh. "Though I certainly wouldn't turn away from patching someone up, should that situation arise."

"Well, I'd certainly appreciate it," Jesse grins, spreading his hands open before him.

Angela's lips twist, her sharp eyes sizing him up before she quips back. "I would appreciate it if you would keep your hands away from open flames."

"Hey now, I do my best," Jesse laughs, swiping one hand through the air as if to wave her concern away. "Just comes with the territory sometimes, you know. Occupational hazard."

"Yes, of course," Angela shakes her head, turning back to the machinery around them. "It is the life you've chosen for yourself, after all."

There's a barb about choice that dies as quickly as it sparks to life on the tip of Jesse's tongue. He doesn't imagine that the particulars Reyes saw fit to provide Angela with include the circumstances of his recruitment. But then, even if that first decision was made on his behalf, the past few months have proven without a doubt that the choice to stay rests squarely in Jesse's own hands. He swallows, letting the uneasy weight of it settle back down somewhere between his shoulders.

"Same t'you," Jesse hums, nonchalant as he lets his gaze wander across the room. "You always had your sights set on being a doctor?"

"Of course," Angela answers easily. Her voice swells with a passionate enthusiasm that seems to be reserved only for matters of medicine. "I've always had an interest in biology and caretaking. I managed to pass my Matura at twelve at completed my first cycle in three years. I'm halfway done with my third now, so in two more years I should have my doctorate then I'll be able to practice on my own."

"Whoa now. Matura? First cycle" Jesse asks, the unfamiliar phrases catching in his mind. "Those some kind of Swiss thing."

"Ah, yes," Angela looks back at him with an apologetic smile. "I believe the American equivalent is, ah, a high school diploma and undergraduate degree? We call them something a little different here."

"Figured you would," Jesse says, a niggling feeling prickling at the back of his mind as he works the math out in his head. "But that would mean that you're..." He starts, then stops, scowling to himself. "No, wait. That can't be right." 

Abruptly, his head whips over to fix Angela with a pointed glance. "How old did you say you were?"

Angela frowns, clicking her tongue with a sharp 'tsk.'

"It's not polite to ask a woman her age, you know."

"I--" Jesse flounders a moment, a flush burning against his cheeks as his mouth works over empty air. "Didn't mean no disrespect. Just that you said you been with that college of yours two years."

"Yes, that's correct," Angela says with crisp precision.

"And y'started that all when you were fifteen..."

"Very good," she smiles, sharp enough to cut like a scalpel. "I'm sure you can manage with the rest on your own, can't you?"

Jerking his head away, Jesse puts one hand to the brim of his hand, trying to tug it down to hide some of his embarrassment. "Course I can," he mutters with a rough exhale. "Just wanted t'make sure I had that clear."

"Is it clear now?" Angela asks without missing a beat.

"Yeah," Jesse says, shaking his head in disbelief. He suddenly realizes exactly why Reyes assigned Angela to his care. "Crystal clear."

\---

It's several months before Jesse sees the omnic again. Pallas's occasional glitches aside, he's almost wondering if their little deal hasn't gone sour. It's not like he has any way of contacting the omnic, though, so in the end he pays it no mind.

He's got a day off while stationed in Hanoi, stretched out on a park bench watching turtles pop their heads up out of the otherwise placid waters of  Hoàn Kiếm Lake. The January sun beats down through the haze of a muggy day that's raised enough sweat on the back of Jesse's neck to drown a man. The shade of the nearby trees do little to stop it, and even his half hearted efforts at moving the stagnant air with his hat in hand have been all but abandoned.

He's just about to push off and make his way back to the Watchpoint on the outskirts of town when the clink of metal against the park bench beside him catches his ear. He turns, hand falling to where a holster would be at his hip if he were on a mission. But protocol means leaving his gun back at the Watchpoint when he's on leave, so his sweaty palm only leaves a damp track against the denim of his jeans.

The omnic is there, its head tilted curiously as it casually moves its hand back to rest at its side.

"Has it really been that long?" it asks. Its head tilts down and then up, sensors flickering to take in the tense line of Jesse's shoulders, the scowl spreading across his face. "I thought you'd be used to this by now."

"Don't say that like it ain't been a while," Jesse grouses, making a show of tossing himself back against the bench. "You know I'd appreciate it if you weren't just popping in and outta thin air all the time."

"I would think an agent of your caliber would be more aware of his surroundings," the omnic replies easily.

Jesse turns to fix it with a side eyed glare just in time to see the bot incline its head downward, nodding to the empty space on the bench next to him. Jesse's gaze follows, finding a small, golden pin resting face down against the seat.

Curiosity has its way quickly enough and he reaches out to snag the thing between two calloused fingers, turning it over in his hands. It's in the shape of an uneven pentagon, stretched down to a point at the bottom. In the middle there's a raised ring, cut in two by the stylized border that drags in the middle to a point, like a single claw stretched down over it. The pin has good weight to it, a smooth, matte gold finish. Jesse flicks it across his knuckles effortlessly, letting out a low hum at the way it glints dully in the hazy of the sunlight.

"This don't look like your usual job," he says, flicking his gaze back up to the omnic. "Pretty sure my pal don't got no access port for this kinda thing."

"It isn't the same as your usual job," the omnic says in a voice that says if it had eyes it'd surely be rolling them by now.

A smirk crawls over Jesse's lips at the bot's irritation. He flips the pin up, catching it cleanly against his palm. "So? What's the occasion?"

"Our plans are moving along according to schedule," the omnic says plainly. "With that, we are aware that we may draw a certain sort of attention. The kind of attention that your organization is unlikely to ignore."

"Thought you were all about keeping under the radar," Jesse asks, lifting an eyebrow in question. "Ain't that why you had me sticking those programs in the system?"

"Being invisible isn't as easy as you might think," the bot quips back tersely. "Since replacing you would be a difficult task, we thought it would be best to provide a safeguard against friendly fire, as it were."

"You call this a safeguard?" Jesse lifts the pin up to the omnic, turning it lightly in his grip.

"An unobtrusive one," the omnic says with a shrug of its shoulders. "It contains a low frequency tracking signal. Undetectable, unless you know what you're looking for. If you put it on that hat of yours, we'll have advanced warning if you and your friends come to visit and we'll be sure to tell our snipers where not to aim."

"Well now," Jesse drawls, looking back down to the badge in his hands. "Always did like the idea of not going own with a bullet between the eyes. Can't say I'll be giving you and your friends the same sorta courtesy, but you know how it goes."

He grins, shaking his head, and turns to snatch up his hat and put the pin in place. It fits nicely against the worn suede belt that sits about the bottom of the crown, the gold shining in contrast to the dusty brown leather of the hat. Jesse takes a moment to admire the handiwork before he drops the hat back on his head, turning back to his omnic companion with a question on his lips.

"Say, you got an excuse for me if the commander asks where I got--"

He stops, staring into empty space as the omnic's left him talking to empty air once again.

"Son of a goddamn gun," Jesse groans, shoving off the park bench to find his way home.

\---

Despite Jesse's concern, an offhand quip of "picking up souvenirs now, cowboy?" from Elliot in passing one day is the only scrutiny that he receives for the omnic's new gift. The relief settles in faster than it did before. A part of Jesse wonders if maybe he isn't getting used to the whole double agent game. There's not too much time to mull over it, regardless. Orders from up top have him shipped back to Switzerland within days, where Reyes is waiting on the tarmac once his transport sets down.

Reyes's appearance is unexpected, but one that Jesse takes in stride. He catches the older man with a grin, tipping his hat to him as he steps out towards the wide maw of the open hangar bay.

"Howdy, commander," he quips. "This some kind of special occasion?"

Reyes snorts, the good natured sort of snort, Jesse can tell by now, jerking his chin towards the base behind him.

"I'm not here for you. Pallas has your orders."

"Good t'see you too," Jesse shoots back, turning to follow Reyes's gaze out over the landing strip and up to the cloud-dotted blue sky overhead. His eyes catch it after a moment, the dark outline of another shuttle coming into land. He delays just long enough to watch it come over the horizon, the insignia emblazoned over the side catching the early morning sun in a bright flash of orange, white and blue. Jesse hums under his breath, turning to give Reyes a sideways glance.

"Think you could put in a good word with the Strike Commander for me?"

Reyes meets him with a sharp glare that doesn't bite nearly as hard now that Jesse knows there's no fangs behind it.

"Thought I told you to get lost, cowboy."

Jesse grins right back, offering a sloppy salute before shuffling off across the tarmac. As soon as he's out of range of Reyes's fists, he turns over his shoulder, shouting back, "Have fun with your boyfriend, boss!" before making his escape into the base.

Headquarters is bustling, like always, with the standard rank and file of enlisted Overwatch agents flitting this way and that through its halls. Jesse pauses a moment at the elevator, his pack over his shoulder, wondering if he'd be able to catch Angela if he swung up by the medbay. Despite the somewhat awkward footing the two of them stood on at first, he's managed to keep up a fairly healthy exchange of letters with the good doctor in training. Though if nothing else his correspondence with Angela has proven that she's not exactly the sort to welcome an interruption when there's work to be done.

"Maybe another time," he hums under his breath just as the elevator doors ding and spring to life. He steps in, pleased to find the car empty, and punches the floor for the deadlock dormitories. The doors chime, sliding shut again when suddenly they're interrupted by a blur of blue and black that's way too short to be any Overwatch agent Jesse's ever seen. Quick as a flash, the mysterious figure presses against the wall of the elevator, pounding the button to close the elevator doors like it's a lifeline.

Jesse barely has time to parse what's happen before Ana Amari's voice sounds with a brusque shout of "Fareeha!" and the doors slide shut.

Fareeha, having secured her escape, flops down against the elevator wall with a flushed sigh of relief, her face stretched in a wide, mischievous grin. Jesse glances down at her, the familiar features quickly falling into place with the memory of the picture he once saw on Ana's desk.

"You on the run?" he asks, raising one eyebrow in question.

To the girl's credit, she doesn't spook, doesn't shy away even though Jesse stands several feet taller than her. She looks up to him with a cheerful determination in her dark eyes, nodding fervently in agreement.

"You're not going to rat me out, are you?"

"Well now, that depends," Jesse muses, catching his chin in one hand, stroking his jaw in thought. "Captain Amari ain't exactly the forgiving sort. I'd hate to have her tan my hide if I let anything happen to her daughter."

"Nothing's going to happen to me," Fareeha says with clear conviction, a pout curling over her lips. "This is Overwatch. No one's a bad guy here."

"You sound pretty sure of that," Jesse says, dropping his hand to tap the Blackwatch insignia emblazoned on the shoulder of his armor. "Your momma ever tell you what this stands for."

Fareeha's eyes follow the gesture before she looks back up to Jesse with an exasperated sigh. "Of course she did. You're Blackwatch. That's covert operations, intelligence missions." Her face twists for a moment, brows furrowing as eyes as sharp as Ana's track their way up to Jesse's face, taking in his entire appearance. There's a beat, a moment of confusion before they light up again, recognition clear as it flashes across Fareeha's face.

"I know you!" she chirps, suddenly giddy with joy. "You're Jesse McCree!"

Jesse blinks, momentarily dumbfounded. He hadn't expected the recognition to go both ways.

"Beg your pardon?"

"Mom's told me about you," Fareeha plows on, stepping right up to look at Jesse with wide-eyed adoration. "She said you used to be in a gang, but then you decided to fight for justice instead. She said Gabriel picked you up and you're fighting with Blackwatch now, a sharpshooting outlaw who saw the light."

"Well now," Jesse laughs, flustering at the sudden attention, and the more sudden revelation that Fareeha's got an imagination that's running at lightning speed with whatever it is that Ana's told her. He stalls a moment, mind racing before he he shakes his head, one hand working at the brim of his hat. "Can't say you're entirely wrong there, though I don't know if I'd quite put it that way--"

"What's it like?" Fareeha interrupts, hands balled into excited fists in front of her. "Being in Overwatch--in Blackwatch! Gabriel's your commander, right? What kind of missions do you go on? You get th travel the world don't you? Have you ever been to Gibraltar? Grand Mesa? Hanoi? Mom's told me all about the other Watchpoints, but she never lets me go."

"Whoa there, slow down a little," Jesse pleads, holding his hands up in a halting gesture at Fareeha's relentless barrage. "You gotta give a man time to talk if you want an answer."

Almost as if on cue, the elevator lurches to a halt, the doors chiming and sliding open. Fareeha's attention instantly snaps away from Jesse, eyes widening as she looks to the hallway beyond.

"You're headed to the Blackwatch dorms, aren't you? You've got your own secret training facilities, right? They're not the same as the ones the Overwatch agents use aren't they? Can you show me?"

"Now hold on a minute little lady," Jesse chides, stepping out of the elevator and gesturing for Fareeha to follow. She does readily with a bounce in her step and a wide smile across her face. "I gotta get my orders for while I'm here. Blackwatch business and all. Plus I bet your mom's gonna have her eye for you, and she's a sharp one."

"She cheats," Fareeha quips easily, scowling as her gaze lifts to the ceiling. "She always asks Pallas for help."

"It is in my programming to follow Captain Amari's orders," the AI's voice sounds in reply, echoing through the empty hallway around them. "Guest access cannot override her, Miss Amari."

Fareeha sticks her tongue out in defiance, turning back to Jesse with the sort of look that clearly says "I told you so." Jesse can't help but chuckle, shaking his head at the display.

"That's called using your surroundings to your advantage, little lady," he says, nodding lightly. "You gotta be careful when you're fighting in enemy territory."

"She's not my enemy," Fareeha says with clear protest. "She just never shows me the parts of headquarters I want to see."

"I'm sure she's got her reasons," Jesse muses, glancing to the side just in time to see the numbers on the elevator tick slowly upward. Probably Ana calling it back up to come after them. By his count, it'll only be a matter of minutes before she makes her way back down.

That puts Jesse in more than a bit of a pickle. Telling Fareeha to get gone means the kid's gonna run amok in the Blackwatch wing. Sure, Pallas can probably keep her from making her way anywhere dangerous, but the AI's just as likely to rat him out to Ana in the end. Like it or not, Jesse doesn't quite want Ana knowing he let her daughter have free reign of one of HQ's more restricted levels. But giving her a tour, even an abbreviated one, doesn't sound like what Captain Amari might have had in mind.

He shifts the pack on his shoulder. The display on the elevator chimes at the hangar floor and comes to a halt. Fareeha sees it to, catching Jesse with a stern gaze.

"Are you going to show me around or not?" she says, hands planted firmly on her hips, shoulders squared. Ana's taught her a good fighter's stance. Jesse sees more than a little of himself in the clear defiance of her gaze.

He grins, reaching out to ruffle the girl's hair with one hand, before motioning for her to follow after.

"Come on, kid. Ain't gonna have to long before your mother shows up. Lemme show you what Blackwatch has to offer."

\---

Ana finds them both within minutes, swooping in to catch Fareeha around her waist while Jesse shows her the shooting gallery. Fareeha quickly dissolves in a fit of laughter and half hearted protest until Ana lets her back down to the ground. Jesse makes a point of checking the strap on his bag rather than witness the display. It's only when Ana calls out to him that he snaps to attention, expecting a reprimand that never comes.

"Thank you for looking after her, Jesse," she says, eyes warm with both hands resting on her daughter's shoulders. "I know Fareeha can be something of a handful."

He fumbles his words a moment, finds them caught in the weight at the back of his throat before a rough swallow puts them into place.

"Wasn't nothing," he answers with a wave of his hand. "I'll leave you to it."

He turns, beating a hasty retreat back to the dorms, with the echo of Fareeha's cheerful  "Bye Jesse!" chasing after him. He doesn't reply.

The doors to his room his open and shut, his pack hitting the empty bed with a soft thud before his body follows after, limbs sprawling leaving him staring up at the empty white ceiling of one of half a dozen rooms that he can now call his own. There's a ghost of jealousy chasing his thoughts, trying to twist itself into a mess in his guts, but he does his best to ignore it.

"Hey Pallas," he calls out, pulling his hat down to rest over his face, muffling his voice. "Boss said you got orders for me."

"I do," the AI replies, voice distorting faintly in static. "Your schedule has been uploaded to your personal device. Following a mandatory debrief at 1700, you have been allotted 36 hours of leave before reporting to your next mission."

"Debrief?" Jesse frowns, plucking the hat up just enough to scowl up at the ceiling in question. "Thought I took care of all that in Hanoi."

"The subject of your briefing is classified," Pallas replies with the sort of cheerful lilt that's always reserved for when Jesse's stuck his nose in where it don't belong. "Regardless, Commander Reyes says your attendance is required. I wouldn't advise that you upset him this time."

"Pretty sure you'd never advise me on upsetting him 'any time,' buddy," Jesse says with a huff, flicking his gaze over to the clock in the wall.

10:24. Too late for morning mess and too early for the lunch crew to roll around. Now that he's found himself back in a bed, the heavy weight of jet lag has started to pull against Jesse's limbs, the fog coalescing in his mind telling him that catching a little cat nap in the middle of the day never hurt no one.

With a low groan, he rolls over, squirming out of his boots and armor with as little effort as possible before shoving his face down in the pillow.

"Hey pal?" he grunts, muffled by the fabric and synthetic fibers. "Wake me up in an hour why don't you?"

"Acknowledged," Pallas responds. "I will monitor your sleep cycles for optimum rest. Sleep well, agent."

Jesse barely has time to mumble a reply before fatigue takes over and sleep carries him away.

\---

As it turns out, even a power nap with an AI monitoring his vitals and REM cycles isn't quite enough to shake the jet lag from a six hour time difference. Jesse manages to catch up with a few acquaintances at lunchtime mess, but spends the better part of the day wondering why Reyes would give him a goddamn evening briefing when all he wants to do is set his schedule right. Still, mandatory in Reyes's book means mandatory, no questions asked. So after a couple of lazy hours spent in the shooting range, Jesse finds himself working his way through the upper hallways of HQ, trying to track down the room for the debrief that Reyes slapped onto his schedule.

It's probably a combination of the fatigue and unfamiliar surroundings that steal his focus, but both vanish almost instantaneously when Jesse rounds the corner and nearly collides face first into a solid wall of bright blue-clad muscle.

He stumbles, reaching for his hat on instinct, an apology quick to rise on his lips before catches sight of who he's ran into.

Morrison turns, the surprised look on his face melting away in a second to a cordial smile while Jesse gapes like a fish out of water.

"You look a little lost, agent," Morrison says, turning to face Jesse properly. He's out of his armor, as dressed down as Jesse's ever seen him wearing nothing more than a t-shirt in the customary Overwatch blue and a pair of slacks.

"Ain't lost," Jesse spits back on instinct, fighting the embarrassed flush he can already feel rising to his ears. A moment later, he adds a muttered "sir."

"No, I'd say you're on the right track," Morrison says, a smile that Jesse can't rightly place crossing his lips. "I think we're headed the same way."

"Beg your pardon?" Jesse grits out, jaw held tight as his hands clench at his sides. His first impression of Morrison aside, the distance that divides Blackwatch operations from Overwatch's normal peacekeeping efforts mean their paths haven't crossed much since then. Jesse's learned more about Jack Morrison from snatches of mess hall gossip and friendly jabs leveled at his relationship with Reyes than he has from any interaction with the man himself. Something about the picture perfect look of him, the way he practically screams 'hero' like some sculpted icon lifted straight from the pages of a well-loved comic book still sets Jesse on edge, prickling over his shoulders and sending an angry tension racing up the back of his neck.

Morrison, to his credit, either doesn't notice or doesn't comment. He just nods, simple and straightforward, making a short gesture for Jesse to follow him. "Reyes called you up, didn't he? Debrief in 14-201?"

He's right, and Jesse hates that he's right. Jesse nods, a short jerk of his head. "That's right," he says, voice clipped. His eyes narrow quickly, his attention suddenly caught by the state of Morrison's dress. There's no holoscreen in hand, no files or anything on his person. He may not quite know the man, but it doesn't seem like Morrison to attend a briefing less than prepared and in anything but proper uniform.

Jesse scowls, arms crossing over his chest, heels digging in slightly against the hallway floor.

"If you don't mind me saying, you seem a bit dressed down for proper briefing" he says, tilting his head back to give Morrison a critical look. "Don't feel like giving Blackwatch your respect, sir?"

That catches Morrison by surprise, and it's damn strange that it does. His eyes widen a moment before looking down, almost as if he's forgotten what he's even wearing, before he claps a hand over the back of his neck with a short shake of his head.

"Sorry, I ah--came right from the gym. You know how it is," he lies, badly. Jesse's scowl deepens at the display. Something's fishy here.

"Can't say that I do," he grumbles, "Ain't got any idea what it's like having a schedule like yours, Strike Commander."

"It's nothing to be jealous of, believe me," Morrison says with easy levity, offering Jesse a wry smile. "More paperwork than you've probably seen in your life."

Jesse resists the urge to roll his eyes, fingers kneading against the skin of his arms with barely contained nerves.

"Wasn't jealous,  _ sir _ . The work I'm doing here suits me just fine."

"I've heard that. Reyes proved me wrong about you," Morrison says, not looking any bit like a man who's just been served a loss.

It's no surprise that Reyes has talked him up to Morrison directly. The Strike Commander still reviews all Blackwatch reports. Reyes meets with him regularly enough on professional terms that it's impossible to think Jesse's name wouldn't have come up at least once. But that's not the look in Morrison's eyes now. The relaxed posture, the way that smile sits comfortably over his lips, the softness in the corner of his eyes. None of it speaks to any recollection of cut and dry reports shared between professionals.

As much as Jesse doesn't want to think about it, he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that there's been words shared between Morrison and Reyes about him in private spaces beyond either of their offices. His gut churns heavily at the thought and he immediately swallows to force it down.

"Let's just get this over with," Jesse grits out, shoving past Morrison with heavy steps as he plows down the hallway, eyes sharp on the placards lining the walls.

The door he needs is fortunately just a few steps away. Jesse doesn't even bother to wait and see if Morrison's followed him before he jabs his finger against the access panel, plowing forward as soon as the door hisses open only to draw into an abrupt halt at the sight that greets his eyes.

Meeting rooms at headquarters aren't anything to write home about. Some of them boast a window, a decent view of the snow capped mountains surrounding the base, but most are nothing more than two bare walls, a holo screen, a utilitarian table, and uncomfortable chairs. Perched up on the fourteenth floor and with space enough to fit about twenty people comfortably, this one would be no different if it weren't for the brightly colored streamers hanging from the ceiling and walls, the bunch of balloons bobbing lazily over a spread of steaming food at the center of the table, and the warm chatter of all the people crowded inside.

As soon as Jesse steps inside, all eyes are on him, and it takes a startled moment before he takes stock of everyone gathered in the room. There's Ana next to Reinhardt, the two of them clearly interrupted mid-conversation, while Fareeha sits to Ana's other side, grinning up at him with that carefree, wide smile of hers. Nida's there too, Lekan and Elliot as well, plus Torbjorn and Gerard, who's accompanied by a slender, graceful looking woman who Jesse can only assume is the infamous Amelie. Last of all, Reyes stands next to the door, dressed down in a simple black hoodie and jeans.

It's Reyes who makes the first move, stepping over to drop his hand onto Jesse's hat, ruffling it against his hair.

"You're late," he says. "Thought your schedule said 1700 sharp, agent." 

"Don't go too hard on him, Gabe," Morrison says, stepping in behind Jesse. There's a soft fondness threading through the way he says Reyes's name, Jesse's mind is still reeling too fast to rightly put it in his place. "He caught me in the hall and you didn't tell him that I was coming, did you?"

"He'd definitely get suspicious if he knew you were coming," Reyes huffs, grinning through it before his attention falls back on Jesse.

"Come on, cowboy. Can't get started without the guest of honor."

"Now wait just a--" Jesse stammers, trying to put every bit of his scattered nerves back to rights. "What the hell's going on here?"

Reyes snorts, shaking his head in amusement. "Do I need to spell it out for you, kid? It's a birthday party."

It's obvious enough now that he has a chance to fully take the room in. Balanced between the home cooked dishes crowding the table is a simple cake, eighteen candles burning cheerfully with only a little bit of wax gathered beneath them.

"It ain't my birthday," Jesse protests, knowing full well it won't do much.

"We all knew that," it's Ana who answers, patient fondness in her tone. "But since you haven't told any of us when that is, we thought that we might as well pick a date for you. Until you felt like telling us, that is."

"Yeah, you're a tight lipped--jerk," Elliot quips, wary of Ana's sharp eyes on him as he catches one of his usual curses on the tip of his tongue. "Better tell us next year, cowboy."

"Although, if you would like, we could simply pick this day again next year," Gerard adds in with a wave of his hand and a fond grin. "It is a good enough day, after all."

"I--" Jesse starts and stops, turning to scowl at Reyes with little heat behind the look. "Why'd you pick today?"

"You gotta get better on the uptake, kid," Reyes chides him. "Hey Pallas, what's the date on the kid's file?"

"Entered into the system on January 22nd, 2060," the AI answers and Jesse swears he can hear the amusement in the artificial voice as well. "One year ago as of today."

Something warm and tight settles in his chest, squeezing so hard he could swear he's nearly breathless. Jesse swallows against it, blinking hard against the sting at the corner of his eyes.

"Goddamnit, boss," he croaks, voice cracking despite his best efforts. He shoves the heel of one hand against his eyes, rubbing furiously as if it'll hide the moisture gathering there. "Maybe give a guy a little more warning next time."

"It's not a surprise if you know it's coming," Reyes chides him amiably before pushing him forward with a solid hand between his shoulders. "Go on, kid. Make a wish."

Jesse catches himself with both hands on the edge of the table, staring the cake down through the blurry streaks of light the candles leave in his watery eyes. To his right, Fareeha's nearly bouncing with excitement next to her mother.

"Hurry up, Jesse! Make a wish!" she chimes in.

This is more than what he asked for. He'd just wanted to get the job done, play a proper agent. That wasn't supposed to mean something like this. 

But there's a hungry part of him, the part that swells with the tight squeeze around his lungs, craving more. This is more than just being a part of Blackwatch, more than being an agent of Overwatch. Every moment of panic and doubt that's raced through his mind over the past year surges up again, leaving his throat feeling parched and dry.

They never doubted him. They never suspected a damn thing.

It's because they're not an organization, he thinks dumbly. They're a family. A heart beating fast and warm at the center of everything. An unwavering, optimistic warmth of a bunch of people who just want to do good in the world. Who'd reach out to every single down on their luck kid like him and offer them a place to belong and a way out of the ravaged shithole that the world's become if they only had the chance.

Jesse stares down the pinpricks of candlelight until the waiting eyes that watch him, the familiar faces, and the room around him fades to black.

Keep focused, he tells himself, don't let it hit too close.

He closes his eyes, just for a moment, sucks in a breath and blows. When he opens his eyes it's just in time to watch the light of the candles flicker and gutter out until each one leaves a trail of smoke in its wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The midsection on this fic stretches longer again. Sob. Fingers crossed that the next chapter comes a little more quickly and goes in the direction I need it to go. Thank you for your patience in waiting for updates and all the encouraging comments! (Also I am in the market for a beta on this thing if anyone is willing to help out...)
> 
> A few notes on references:
> 
> [Dr. Liebert](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_Monster_characters#Johan_Liebert). [Matura](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Matura). [Swiss cycles](https://www.studyineurope.eu/study-in-switzerland/admission-requirements). [Hoàn Kiếm Lake](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ho%C3%A0n_Ki%E1%BA%BFm_Lake).


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The years go by, with new faces and tensions rising between Blackwatch and Talon. Jesse finds himself caught in the crossfire.

For all the prying that comes out of the party, Jesse adamantly refuses to tell even a single member of the Overwatch or Blackwatch teams his actual birthday. The chatter around mess is there's a pool going on who's gonna get it out of him. Smart money is usually on Reyes or Ana, knowing full well that Ana's taken a shine to him and that Reyes is the sort who could work a secret out of a man before he even realizes he's told it.

The only thing the agents tossing their money in don't seem to know is that, as far as Jesse sees it, Reyes is content to let Jesse have this one to himself. It's Jesse who takes that freedom and runs away with it.

By the time the celebration rolls around the next year there's plenty of good natured teasing over Jesse's best kept secret and every smiling face in the room is none the wiser.

The agents of Overwatch and Blackwatch aren't the only ones interested in raising the stakes as time rolls on. His meetings with the omnic start to establish a cadence, regular as it is unpredictable. It always feels like just as soon as Jesse finds himself with a day off wondering where the damn bot's gotten itself off to the thing crops up in front of him without so much as a how do you do.

Two years into their deal, Jesse's at least managed to get a name to put to the faceless organization calling the shots for his little friend.

It's an operation down in Cambodia that tips him off, a symbol emblazoned on the armor of the troops guarding a bunker used as a stockpile of drugs and weapons making their way into the black markets of Thailand, Laos, and Vietnam. He almost doesn't recognize it at first, it's Nida who makes the catch, a short, bemused sort of laugh escaping her lips while they're clearing the perimeter.

"Hey cowboy," she quips over the comms, "Think these guys went to the same souvenir shop where you got that thing for your hat."

Jesse's mind lurches and races as he looks down again at the scuffed and dirtied shoulder plate of the body he's shoving aside. There against the gray material is the mark, a stylized 'T', curved at the top with the center of the letter tapered to a sharp and menacing point. It's not exactly the same, the circle is missing, the symbol painted in red instead of dusty gold, but with the omnic's words ringing in his memory Jesse knows it's hardly a coincidence.

"Well I'll be," he huffs, shaking his head. "Think I should go back and ask for a refund?"

"I say keep it," Nida replies, amusement tinging her voice. "It looks better on you."

It's only a few months later before the omnic finds him again, giving Jesse the chance he needs to confirm his suspicions.

"You know, don't think I told you before but I appreciate the pin," he remarks casually across the table of a cafe in Santiago, a copy of Blackwatch's latest mission reports resting in a neat little folder between them. "Reminds me of those wicked claws that eagles and the like have." He glances up at the omnic eyes sharp with a warm grin stretching sharper over his face.

"They got a name for those, don't they?" he asks, feigning ignorance. "What do they call 'em?"

The omnic's faceplate is impassive as always, the sensors that serve as eyes flickering once before it replies.

"Talons," is all it says, but the knowing weight placed on the word is all the confirmation that Jesse needs.

"That's right," he hums, nodding to himself before turning back to his meal. "Talon."

\---

As far as Blackwatch's intel goes, Talon doesn't keep itself off their radar for long.

The news from Cambodia breaks while Jesse's on assignment in Serbia, he doesn't get the heads up until there's a message waiting for him at headquarters.

"It's urgent," Pallas informs him, "Commander Reyes will want to see you when he's returned."

"Thought he was back on base," Jesee muses, flipping through his holovid to locate the file in question. "Something happen with the boss--"

His words cut off when the message video pops up. It's Reyes's face staring him down from the screen, his jaw set, lips drawn in the sort of expression that means business.

"Blackwatch agents, I'm sure some of you have seen the news already but for those of you who haven't, here's the story. Operation Fullstorm was compromised."

Jesse swallows, sitting down hard on the edge of his bed. Fullstorm was Cambodia, Talon.

On the screen, Reyes presses on, arms crossing tightly over his chest in agitation.

"As you know, the mission itself was a success. We got what we needed, rooted the bad guys out, but someone was watching us."

Reyes pauses a moment, scowling into the camera before letting out a rough breath.

"There's no leads on who it was yet, though Talon's obviously top of the list. But whoever did it doesn't want a payoff. They're not bothering with blackmail. They dropped the damn thing in the inbox of every media channel on the planet. Talking heads and pundits are eating it up over every holovid in the world now. They want to see us dragged low. Want the world to know what Overwatch, what Blackwatch has been hiding from them."

Jesse swallows hard, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest, the back of his throat parched and dry.

"You know that isn't how it works," Reyes says, the recording of his dark eyes boring so hard into Jesse's that he can feel his hair stand on end. "We're going to have to deal with this until PR can smooth it over. Cambodian government's pissed enough as it is us for running ops in their country without proper authorization, and they've got other member nations shouting the same tune. Overwatch can handle them. Our priority is going to be finding whoever did this and making them pay."

There's another pause, shorter this time, as Reyes's eyes fix resolutely on the screen, shoulders squared with firm authority.

"Agents in the field, your operations proceed under high alert. I want to see double sweeps for watchers and taps. We're not giving away any more than we already have. All pending operations are on hold until we've got a check on our intel. I expect any agents stationed at headquarters to be present for an emergency debrief at 0800 tomorrow. Dismissed."

The screen flicks off as quickly as it came to life, leaving Jesse's mind reeling from shock.

"I'll be god damned..." he hisses under his breath. Reyes certainly did seem to have Talon pegged. Given how little Talon had meddled in Blackwatch's affairs over the past couple of years something like this is nothing short of an all out declaration of war.

"It is disturbing news," Pallas says, the somber tone in the AI's voice distorting with an audio glitch.

Something in Jesse's heart pangs, squeezing tighter than it rightly should.

"Disturbing seems like an understatement," he grits out, raking one hand up through his hair with a heavy sigh. "Just better hope the boss can get us all outta it together."

"I'm certain that Commander Reyes will not disappoint," the AI says, with a patient certainty that Jesse couldn't mime if he tried.

"Well," he says, shaking his head at the sound of it. "He's not the type to disappoint now is he?"

\---

0800 the next morning finds Jesse and the smattering of other agents waiting in one of the debrief rooms nestled between the training rooms and mess in Blackwatch's wing of headquarters. Lekan shifts idly at his side, having caught up to Jesse at breakfast. His hair is freshly dyed, a bright mix of neon green and searing red that just barely manages to avoid looking like some kind of cheap Christmas decoration.

"Fullstorm was you, wasn't it?" Lekan asks, crouched in a chair with his hands shoved deep into his pockets with shoulders hunched up straight to his ears. "You and Nida, right? You didn't see anyone did you?"

"I told you, buddy, didn't see anything off during the mission." Lekan already assailed him with a flurry of questions over breakfast. Jesse barely managed to finish his food between spitting back answers.

"Look, you saw the video as well as I did. Whoever got that was under cover. They'd probably set up long before we got there and they weren't gonna make a move and give themselves away. Didn't seem like they cared about saving any of those Talon troops we took down, just looked like they wanted to get dirt on us."

"Yeah, I know," Lekan nods, curls bobbing with the gesture. "But you're the one with the deadeye, cowboy. Even Captain Amari says you could spot a guy in full camo before any of us knew what was up. Just thought, you know, if anyone would've seen it then it would've been you."

Jesse huffs, trying to take the compliment in stride as best he can. "Hey now, I'm flattered. And believe me I would've liked to have caught these guys red handed. But I'm telling you, I didn't see a thing."

"Stop running the cowboy through the wringer," Reyes says, stepping into the room and tapping the panel to slide the door shut behind him. Lekan, Jesse, and the rest of the agents gathered snap to their feet, offering a salute in a show of formality that Reyes quickly waves away with the tablet in his hand. "At ease already. Sit down. Let's just get this done and over with."

It's easy enough to see from the brusque way Reyes crosses the room, dropping his tablet down on the table with a heavy hand, that he's already been through the wringer on his own. 0800 and he's probably already been chewed out by Morrison and Adawe, to name a few. Jesse certainly doesn't pity him that. He keeps his mouth snapped shut and settles back down into his chair, hands folded neatly in his lap.

Reyes's dark eyes take stock of the small group gathered, Blackwatch agents generally don't enjoy much time off between assignments, before he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose between two heavy fingers.

"Let's just get this straight. I'm not in the mood to answer stupid questions so you'd better not ask them. Blackwatch was never meant for good PR and this shit doesn't help us. I've already had my ass chewed for two hours this morning so I'm not in the mood for any of you ingrates mouthing off, is that clear?"

"Yes sir," a chorus sounds around the room, chased on its heels by a weighty silence seldom heard in the Blackwatch chambers. Reyes scans the room once more, dropping his hand down to cross both arms over his chest with an appraising look on his face.

"Good. Now I meant what I said yesterday. This little stunt just launched whoever these assholes are straight up to priority number one on our list, which couldn't be better since Morrison and Adawe want us lying low until they can get the firestorm under control. If you've got a window closing on something that falls under another operation, you tell me and I'll see if I can get you cleared to proceed, but I'm not making any promises. All other agents are now effectively re-assigned to Operation Open Night."

Reyes drops one hand down to the tablet on the table in front of him, bringing up the holovid at the center of the room with a few keystrokes. Still images from the video hover in the air in front of Jesse and the other agents along with a few other panels of preliminary analyses of the footage itself. Satisfied, Reyes presses on.

"Our first problem is, we don't have intel. We've got the people in tech picking the footage and the messages sent to our friends in the media apart for anything they can find but if these guys are as good as they seem, we probably won't find much. As you can imagine, the Cambodian government's not too keen on helping us out, so I'm sending Pensak, Singh, and Huynh in undercover to root out anything you can get from the locals."

There's nods and three murmurs of "yes sir," from across the table. Reyes nods to them before he continues.

"McCree and Demir are grounded until further notice," he says, silencing the protest that springs to Jesse's throat before it even starts with a pointed glare. "You don't get a say in it. Orders came from Morrison. Give him shit if you've got a problem with it."

Jesse scowls, lips twisting as he weighs the option of it, but he remains silent.

"As for the rest of you," Reyes presses on, "we're casting a wide net. If you've got favors, now's the time to call them in. I want any dirt I can get on these bastards and I don't care what it costs. Once you know where you need to be dropped, you come to me and I'll get the sign off."

The rest of the table mutters in agreement. Somewhat placated, Reyes leans forward, bracing both hands on the edge of the table to fix each of the agents gathered in his gaze, pinning them down under the intensity of his stare.

"Let me make one thing clear," he says, his voice pitched low with a barely concealed threat. "Once you're out there in the field you will not engage unless it's at the cost of your life. I don't care what kind of hostile it is, I don't care if you think you can stop the next fucking Crisis from crashing down on our heads. We're covering our tracks until we know who it is that's trailing us, and I will bring down hell if any of you assholes makes that harder for us. Got it?"

"Yes sir," the chorus sounds.

"Good," Reyes huffs. He pushes off the edge of the table, dragging one hand against the back of his neck, cracking the joints there. Jesse lets out a slight wince of sympathy, shifting uneasily in his seat as he waits for the dismissal.

"Oh right," Reyes says, head jerking up to glance at the ceiling. "Some of you might've noticed Pallas acting up late. We've had IT in to take a look at it and they figured it was just some processor bloat, low memory, something like that. But in light of recent events we've decided to give him a little rest and bring in a specialist."

"Specialist?" Lekan asks, bright red eyebrow lifting up into a fringe of neon green. "Better than what Overwatch has to offer?"

"Yeah," Reyes nods, grinning in a way that Jesse's almost tempted to call excited. "We just picked up the sole survivor from the Horizon Lunar Colony."

\---

Jesse hadn't really paid much mind to the rumors of the Horizon Lunar Colony that had been floating around the bases over the past several weeks. He'd at least heard of the experiment, which was more than could be said for him back in his days in Deadlock, but the thought of super smart monkeys on the moon going apeshit wasn't exactly a cause for concern or interest. It wasn't like they were building rockets to shoot their way back down to Earth, right?

When Jesse first catches sight of the new recruit lumbering about headquarters he thinks he maybe should have questioned his initial assessment.

The gorilla--and he's damn well a gorilla, not a monkey--is huge. Even folded over on his hands and feet, the beast dwarfs Jesse. Jesse finds himself staring outright as the beast ducks his head to fit through one of the narrower hallways in headquarters, offering a rumbling but exceedingly polite apology to the other agents shying out of the way.

Most of the, like Jesse himself, seem too wide eyed and slack jawed with surprise to do much other than nod and hurry on their way. Seeing as Jesse don't have much to do these days since Reyes grounded him, he just keeps on staring, though he at least has the decency to pick his jaw up off the floor.

The gorilla catches notice, offering a toothy grin as he makes his way slowly down the hall.

"Good afternoon," he says, moving over to Jesse and nearly crowding him straight into the wall at his back. "I was just on my way to my technical orientation but I hope you wouldn't mind if I took a moment to introduce myself. Blackwatch agents seem to be a rare sight around here so I'm glad that I've finally found one of you. Ah, but where are my manners?"

One massive paw lifts from the ground and extends towards Jesse, palm up and open.

"I'm the newest recruit from the Horizon Lunar Colony, Winston. Though--ah--you've probably already figured out that first part. Still, it's my pleasure to have the opportunity to work with you."

Jesse stares at the paw, the back of his mind reminding him of how easily Winston could crush his entire body in that meaty fist, before he shakes himself out of it, catching one of Winston's fingers in his grip and shaking loosely.

"Jesse McCree," he says with a nod, hoping that somehow Winston can't notice the racing of his pulse or the way the hairs at the back of his neck have all suddenly stood on end. "Boss told us you were coming around. Though I guess he neglected to mention, ah, well, anything else about you."

"Do you mean Commander Reyes?" Winston asks, squinting and lifting one hand up to adjust the glasses perched over his wide nose. "He was present at my initial briefing with the Strike Commander and Captain Amari. He seems like a very taciturn fellow. But very dedicated nonetheless."

"Yeah, well, that'd be the Commander," Jesse laughs roughly with a short shake of his head. One hand reaches up, rubbing down the back of his neck to try to calm his jumpy nerves. "Told us you were coming around to help fix up our old AI friend."

"Oh, yes, the Pallas system!" Jesse nearly jumps in shock at the way Winston's eyes positively light up at the mention of the AI. "It's an impressive algorithm. The advancements in decision tree modeling and machine learning use to build its interface were groundbreaking at the time. I heard about it in my youth but I never thought that I'd be called in to assist with its overhaul. It's truly an honor."

"Don't know much about all that technical mumbo jumbo," Jesse says with a wave of his hand. "But you think you're up to getting him running again?"

"Of course," Winston says with vehement confidence before pausing, a curious frown twisting across his massive features. "Although it does seem somewhat strange that it's experiencing performance issues at this stage. Resource allocation and proper load balancing between its processors should have been one of the fundamentals of its programming. I can't imagine that it's the caching behavior or anything like that. And, of course, an external breach would be completely out of the question."

"Sure would," Jesse parrots, looping his thumbs into his belt buckles with a casual sway of his hips. "Seems like Pallas's in good hands with you."

"I would hate to disappoint," Winston says with a firm nod, shuffling from hand to hand with what Jesse can only assume is excitement. "It is my first assignment as an agent of Overwatch, after all. Oh--though I really should be on my way to that orientation. Wouldn't want to be late on the first day, would I?" Winston laughs at the remark, somehow self-effacing and oozing sincerity all at once. "I look forward to seeing you again soon, Agent McCree."

"Yeah, you too," Jesse says, offering a short wave and a tip of his hat as Winston trots off down the hallway. Jesse can almost swear he sees a spring in the massive gorilla's gait, the sight of it captivating him until an all too familiar cough sounds behind him.

Jesse turns, eyes snapping up to meet Reyes's habitual glare. Almost instantly he can tell there's something different in it today, his eyes bright and lips twisted in grimace that Jesse can tell is a barely contained grin. 

"I see you met the new recruit," he says, nodding off towards Winston's retreating form.

"He introduced himself," Jesse answers, glancing over his shoulder once before turning to scowl back up at Reyes, arms crossed firmly over his chest. "You know, you maybe coulda said something about him being a giant gorilla."

Reyes grins at him, sharply amused, the happiest that Jesse's seen him in days.

"Didn't want to ruin the surprise."

\---

True to his enthusiasm, Winston gets straight to work on the Pallas project. With the level of coordination and scheduling handled through the AI's proverbial hands, it's a little bit of a shaky transition at first, but Winston manages to whip up an interim solution dubbed "Athena," to handle voice commands and basic tasks in the interim. Jesse doesn't really mind, it's just a machine after all, but more than once he catches himself calling out the wrong name when it comes time to ask for his daily schedule or check on the next debrief. The realization of it leaves a bitter taste lingering on his tongue which he dutifully swallows down. It's just a damn machine.

Regardless of the sensation, the unnamed emotion that Jesse doesn't want to bother pinning down, he soon finds himself with little time to spend mulling over the strange feeling when Reyes lifts his and Nida's probation as abruptly as he started.

"We're making good headway on the operation," he tells them in a private briefing several months after the incident, tapping his tablet to transfer a few files over to their devices. "Got a new mission that I need you both on. You'll both be dropping into Ningxia in two days. Read up before then."

"Yes, sir," they answer, and that's the end of it.

It's good to be back in the swing of things. The distraction of working a stake out, of running infiltration, sabotage, all the bread and butter of Blackwatch agents is a welcome thing. Jesse willingly throws himself into it, not caring one bit that the target this time is the very same organization that's had him at the end of their leash since day one.

Nearly a full year passes before he gets leave again, a handful of days offered outside Watchpoint Gibraltar following the Ningxia mission giving him a chance to recoup in the summer Mediterranean sun before the next op starts up somewhere down in Africa.

On his first day off, Jesse finds himself a nice spot out on Catalan Bay, letting the sound of the waves crashing into the beach lull him into a comfortable afternoon siesta. Unfortunately, his happy little bout of sunbathing is only too quickly obscured by the shadow of a familiar black plated figure.

"You're chasing your own tail, Jesse McCree," the mechanical voice sounds over him.

Jesse cracks one eye open, scowling up at the omnic with mock offense. "Yanno, you're standing in my sunlight."

"That was intentional," the omnic informs him flatly. "My point still stands."

With a sigh, Jesse shoves himself up into a sitting position, dusting off his dirty slacks and shirt. "I heard you the first time. Ain't no surprise though. That's why you gave me this, ain't it?" He taps the gold symbol on his hat for emphasis before picking it up off the beach, shaking sand from the brim.

"We were aware that your operations may cross paths with our agents," the omnic says with a long suffering quality to its mechanical tone. "But your Commander is going beyond that, isn't he?"

Jesse laughs shortly, dropping the hat back on his head with a nod. "Sure is. Think he'd like to make a monkey out of you all."

"The recruitment of the Horizon survivor was public news," the omnic answers.

"Then you know," Jesse says with a shrug, leaning back on his palms to look up at the omnic through the glare of the sun. "Beg pardon, but I don't see how I've got much choice other than 'chasing my tail,' as you call it. Orders are orders. I don't get to pick and choose."

"You'd do well to remember that," the omnic says, mechanical voice heavier than the usual.

Jesse frowns at the heavy bent to the machine's words. Despite the ramp up on missions, the clear battle lines being drawn between Overwatch and Talon he's still kept to his end of the agreement. Mission reports still find their way into the omnic's waiting hands, dozens of innocuous thumb drives hooked to the open access ports in Jesse's room at countless Watchpoints across the globe only to be destroyed in an effort to cover his trail.

His chin juts up, cool defiance clear in the look that he levels at the shiny black metal faceplate above him.

"What makes you think I forgot it?"

The omnic shrugs, a nonchalant air returning to its gestures. The inhuman shift leaves an uneasy feeling creeping across the back of Jesse's neck.

"It's been a while since I've reminded you," it says. "I thought it beared repeating."

"Yeah, well I heard you the first dozen times," Jesse retorts, turning his gaze back out over the rolling waves of the Mediterranean, sparkling under the bright heat of the summer sun. "You got work for me today?"

A small manila packet drops into Jesse's lap. He picks it up, flipping the folder open to find a small device and a printed list of coordinates.

"We found a  few of your friends," the omnic says by way of explanation. "We'd like to know how they're doing."

"Just mission specs then, huh?" Jesse says, dropping the contents back into the folder and tucking it into his back pocket. "Don't you worry, I'll get it done."

Knowing the omnic's probably gone already, Jesse tips his hat back down over his face, stretching out on the warm sandy beach to catch a few more minutes of relaxation.

"That isn't the last of it," the omnic says, startling him up so fast he nearly loses his hat off his head.

Jesse gapes for a moment, staring up at the omnic in a state of confused awe. "Wait, you're sticking around to talk this time?"

"I said that wasn't all," the omnic replies, terse and short. "In the interests of your protection, we'd advise you to keep your involvement with those locations to a minimum. We'd prefer it if we didn't have to replace you."

"Well shucks," Jesse says with half a laugh on his breath. "Better watch it, you just might get me thinking you care about my sorry ass."

"Don't mistake me, Jesse McCree," the omnic says, a mechanical levity lending to its tone. "Finding another one like you would be difficult, not impossible."

Jesse snorts. The omnic's point comes across perfectly clear. With a shake of his head, he tugs at the brim of his hat to fix it back in place, turning to gaze out over the deep blue horizon of Catalan Bay.

"Wouldn't want to make things difficult for you now, would I?"

\---

He stops by a few shops on his way back to the Watchpoint, picking up post cards and a few other pointless souvenirs to shove into the envelope, masking the presence of the omnic's orders from Athena's surveillance sensors. The time he has to himself after evening mess is enough for him to ask the AI for a shutdown, the device hooked to his room's open port like always as he pulls up the access panel to go hunting for the coordinates the omnic has given him.

The search isn't a hard one at all. They all pop up cleanly under the extended briefings for Open Night. Islamabad, Tbilisi, Hanamura, Palo Alto, Havana, Tallinn, Numbani. All metropolitan areas that Reyes has pegged for having links to potential Talon outposts nearby.

Glancing down the list as he waits for the files to transfer, Jesse feels himself wince unconsciously at the personnel files slotted in the mission briefs. Lekan's out in Numbani now, he'd been special forces with the military there before. Still had a few connections that were worthwhile, Jesse's set to join him when his leave runs up. Nida's in Tallinn working with a recon team. Elliot's in charge of the squad that got sent to Palo Alto. Every file on the list contains a name that Jesse can put to a face, an agent who's had his back when he's been in a pinch, someone who's met him on the sparring floor, tossed a sideways jab at his cowboy hat, or held down position with him under enemy fire.

Jesse's gut churns at the thought. The omnic'd told him to keep his head down. That meant Reyes was getting close, they were all getting close. Yet the swell in pride for what Blackwatch could accomplish in a little over a year wasn't enough to chase the unease building at the back of his throat away. His eyes lock on the screen, focus narrowing to the steady progress of the faint blue progress bar floating in the air. 73% transferred.

He inhales through his nose, shoulders rising and nostrils flared. 78% transferred.

He exhales, a rough hiss between clenched teeth and lips. 84%

He inhales. Doesn't let the thoughts catch, doesn't let his focus waver. He locks the glowing digital numbers in his sights, watching the edges tighten under the intensity of his gaze, the rest of the room falling away into nothingness. 89%

Exhale. Push it all out. Flush himself empty. They knew the risks when they signed on. No one else in all of Blackwatch had been given an ultimatum like his. They chose this. They were willing. 95%

Inhale. Just a little longer. His lips purse, holding to a tight line at the center of his mouth. The uncomfortable itch at the back of his throat is almost gone. The tension settling with each little tick of the number on the screen.

100%

The little light on the end of the device flickers, blinking red three times before it flicks to a steady green. Transmission complete.

"That oughta do you," Jesse breathes out into the silence of his room, flicking the device out of the port and squeezing it tight between his thumb and forefinger, crushing it like the bug that it is.

\---

One year later, with two more information drops to the omnic under his belt, Jesse's nearly forgotten all about the warning given to him in a sunny beach in Gibraltar. It's a brisk November night in Muuga with the wind whipping in off the Gulf of Finland, scattering the remains of the snowstorm that rolled across the port city the night before.

Reyes is convinced he's got a pin down on a Talon outpost, good evidence corroborated by Nida's exhaustive recon work. They've got images lifted off of private security cameras and global satellites of operatives moving in and out of a warehouse just on the outskirts of the container yard. Too much activity with too little cargo movement to be normal. The background check on the company renting out the space holds up at first blush, but Reyes knows better, probes deeper, and has dismantled the entire thing for what it is: a facade, a front for moving weapons and dissidents into Russia and the rest of Europe, stoking the fires of anti-omnic and anti-Overwatch sentiment.

Jesse is part of the two team infiltration squad with about twenty of Blackwatch's finest scattered across the small industrial park. Reyes is on the ground with them, his voice crackling to life over the comm in Jesse's ear.

"This is Reaper. Bravo team, report your position."

It's Nida beside him who reaches for her com, tapping it before whispering in a voice that echos inside of Jesse's ear.

"This is Baianai. Bravo team is in position. Waiting for your signal."

"Red Storm, give me an update," Reyes's voice cracks to life again, not missing a beat.

"Two on the back entrance, four at the front," Lekan answers. "I have a shot on the back, whenever you're ready."

Jesse turns to where he knows the other man is hidden in a sniper's nest atop one of the cranes in the nearby container yard, a tight black hood covering his usual bright shock of hair, the same sort of tactical gear that's replaced Jesse's signature cowboy hat. Reyes doesn't want to take any chances on detection this time. Every agent is masked, clad head to toe in black, boots, gauntlets, and body armor strapped to their bodies for protection.

Jesse shifts in position, his hand stroking over the butt of the six shooter at his hip, the other tightening on his standard issue rifle. Even with the armor flush and tight against his chest, the dark of his outfit blending seamlessly into the the shadows of the industrial park, he feels exposed, caught in the sights of not only Talon, but every single Blackwatch agent standing at his back. 

"On my signal, Red Storm," Reyes says, a hush falling over the comms and the still darkness of Bravo team's hiding place.

Adrenaline tingles at Jesse's fingertips, anticipation pounding like a pressure against his chest. In the dim light he can see the line of Nida's jaw tighten, her finger pressing hard against the trigger guard of her rifle. They're all waiting, a kinetic force of swift and efficient destruction ready to let fly at the beck and call of one man's voice.

"Go."

Two silenced pops echo in quick succession, each followed by the heavy thud as the guard's bodies fall where they stood.

"Back door clear," Lekan hisses in a rush. "You're good."

"Bravo team, move. Alpha team, follow me," Reyes growls out, and the agents surrounding Jesse spring to life.

"Follow my lead," Nida whispers to them with hushed fervor, her hand held up as she gives the signal for them to move out. Two agents to either flank, holding the perimeter, five behind her to take the door. Jesse jumps to his feet, taking position at her right flank, feet pounding against the beaten pavement as they sweep across the short distance that separates their hiding place from the back door of the warehouse.

The guards are long gone, dark circles of their own blood slowly spreading beneath their prone forms. None of the agents pay them any mind. Nida leads them up tight to the back door, lifting one hand in warning to hold tight until the blast of two shotguns breaks the silence of the night air. Alpha team is underway. With a sharp nod, Nida throws the door open, rifle at the ready. All six agents of the rear strike team fanning out behind her, rifles sights sweeping to the corners and catwalks to check for hostiles.

Almost on cue, the doors at the far end of the warehouse kick open, Reyes and the Alpha team spreading out in a mirror image at the far end of the expansive, empty warehouse floor. It's only an instant before they realize what's gone wrong, rifles lowered as Reyes turns to the catwalks lining the upper walls of the building.

"Goddamnit--" he grits out, the angry growl of it amplifying as the word echos off the warehouse walls.

"Perimeter sweep, now," he barks. "If they've moved there's got to be a way out. Find it!"

Around him, the agents of both teams spring to action, moving to the walls, across the barren floors, searching for some sign of their errant quarry. Reyes strides purposefully across the warehouse, hooking his shotguns back into their holsters at his belt as he steps up to where Nida and Jesse wait for him.

"They should have had at least thirty men here, equipment, munitions," she says, her voice tight in disbelief. "We haven't seen them move it at all."

"It's underground," Reyes says with a snort. "There's a tunnel, somewhere. They knew we were onto them, though. They knew so they didn't use it. Didn't give us a reason to suspect they had another way out until they needed it."

"How the fuck would they know?" it's Elliot who chimes in, anger evident in the arm flung wide out towards the warehouse around them. "This shit was supposed to be on lockdown! We didn't even tell the goddamned AI about this one!"

"I don't want to hear it, agent," Reyes growls back. "All that talking doesn't look like finding their way out to me."

"With all due respect, this is bullshit sir," Elliot spits back, his voice dropping as he steps in, barely audible to even Jesse standing a few paces away. "We've got a goddamn mole and you know it. Someone's selling us out and they're in deep. We're compromised. This mission's sunk!"

Reyes's hand snaps out lightning fast, grabbing Elliot by his collar and hauling the other man in. The glare he fixes him with is lethal, the angry growl to his voice even more so.

"I said, I don't want to hear it," he grinds out through clenched teeth. "We've eliminated the hostiles, so you'd better get to work, or else--"

"Alpha, Bravo, this is Red Storm--" Lekan's voice cracks to life over the comms in a frantic rush, "You gotta get out of there, repeat, this is Red Storm, Reaper--get everyone out, they're coming in, they've got you surrounded, fifteen men on the front, ten on the back--"

"Boss--the tunnels," another agent's voice cuts in, panic echoing off the walls of the warehouse, "They've rigged them to blow, we've gotta get out of here!"

Reyes hisses between his lips, an inarticulate exhale of rage before he turns, barking orders through his comm.

"Red Storm, line up a shot. I need it to count, but do not reveal your position. Hold your fire until I give the order. Bravo, back door, position for cover fire. Alpha, you dive on my call. Both teams, get the hell away from those tunnels," Reyes snaps, tapping at the comm in his ear to switch channels. "Athena, Eagle Protocol. I need wings out of here, and I need them now!"

"This is fucking bullshit," Elliot hisses as all the surrounding agents spring into action. Jesse watches as he moves to pull the sniper rifle strapped on his back into his hands before a sharp gesture from Reyes stops him.

"Don't," Reyes says, his words cutting to bone. "Red Storm takes the shot, you won't have time to set up. Eastwood," his glare snaps to Jesse. "Load up your sidearm. The Captain's told me you've got a new trick up your sleeve."

"Sir--?"

Jesse startles in the tumult of agents rushing around him, his hand dropping instinctively down to the butt of the six shooter holstered at his side. The trick was just a bit of fancy shooting he'd been practicing to pass time during his suspension, a little bit of show to catch Captain Amari's attention whenever they'd shared the practice range together. With the standard issue rifles that accompanied most Blackwatch operations, there hasn't been a chance to use it. Until now, it seems.

Reyes is fixed on him. His hand closes over Jesse's shoulder, shoving him back towards the door before Jesse has a chance to catch his breath.

"You've got six shots, agent," he says, the low intensity of his words colliding against Jesse's chest like a physical force. "We've got ten hostiles out there. Why don't you know me how many of them you can make drop."

Jesse swallows dry heat all down his throat. For a blistering moment it feels like all eyes in the warehouse are on him, sightlines from twenty men and women lethal enough to put a bullet through his brain as fast as he can inhale. Agents skilled enough to rip him limb from limb before he even hit the ground. He can feel the one thought shared between every one of them charged in the air of the warehouse around him.

They're not going down, not without a fight.

He nods, jaw set, meeting Reye's gaze. "Yes sir."

"Good," is all Reyes says in reply, pushing him forward, both of them staking out beside the tiny warehouse door they'd come through only minutes before. The other agents fan about them, settling into position like the coil of a panther's muscles, ready to pounce. Ready to kill.

Reyes lifts one hand, palm out, tapping against the comm in his ear.

"Red Storm, do you have your shot?"

Silence rings for a brief, hanging moment, every breath in the warehouse held.

The comm cracks to life a moment later. "I have it," Lekan says, his voice tight and hushed. "Waiting for your signal."

"Take as many as you can get," Reyes snaps. "Go."

None of them hear the shots, but the chaos that follows is impossible to miss. From just beyond the door there's a shout of panic, a cry of sniper on the air. Reyes's hand holds still, unwavering, for only a moment longer before he drops it and Blackwatch springs to action.

They push the door open only to be met with open fire. A grunt of pain echoes to Jesse's right as an agent crumples to the ground, pulled aside before Talon can take another shot as their ranks swarm and press outward.

Jesse can feel his heart pounding heavy in his chest, his breath caught in his throat. The six-shooter, Peacekeeper, weighs heavy in his hand, familiar. He exhales, his focus drawn tight to the pressure of the handle against the leather covering his hands. The sharp edges of the trigger guard tight on the callouses of his fingertip.

He breathes in, nostrils flaring. Gunshots echo in his ears, the cries of enemies and allies alike caught in the spray of bullets. He can hear the labored panting of the woman curled at his feet, her arm pressing tight to a wound on her side.

Jesse turns, lifts his gun, and steps to the open doorway, shoulders pinned back, eyes wide as sweeps his gaze across the open yard. In an instant, he can see it all. The bodies of the guards they dispatched before laying dead to either side of him. Nida crouched to his left, rifle raised, fixed on a pair of Talon agents crouched behind the nearby containers for cover. Two more agents straight on, a corpse face down to their right. Another two peeking from cover just to his right, with three more Blackwatch agents covering his side. Despite the cover of night, the dark shadows cast by the bright halogens overhead, he can see it all clear as day. The silhouettes of his targets stand out as brightly as if they were lit by the midday sun. Each shot finds its path in the time it takes Jesse to lift his gun.

He fixes the first one, lifts his hand to the hammer, and shoots.

One, two, three, four, five six.

The cries echo out in chorus together, like a sweet harmony to his ears. Jesse remembers to breathe again, gasping tight against the pressure of his lungs.

Somewhere beside him, he hears the quiet whisper of Elliot's "holy shit," before the firefight erupts again.

The beat of footsteps on pavement is the only warning they get before the agents from the front circle around either side of the building, flanking and firing on them without hesitation. Elliot cries out at his side, his rifle firing back before he crumbles down, one hand moving to his leg.

Jesse's rifle is back in his hand before he realizes it, the staccato beat of semi-automatic fire filling the air as he shoots toward the oncoming forces. He steps clear of the door, pressing his back to the warehouse wall for some kind of cover, and keeps firing.

He doesn't know how long it is before the drone of engines overhead drowns out the pop and snap of gunfire, plunging everything Jesse knows into white noise and the beat of his heart in his own ears. Panic overtakes him. Lekan didn't mention air support, how did they miss those on the recon? It's Reyes's voice that snaps him back out, he's shouting for them to rally, screaming into his comm for all agents to converge at their relay point and get the hell out. The flash of lights reflects off the familiar bright blue of the ship's hull against the night sky.

Overwatch shuttles. Eagle Protocol. They're getting out.

Black dots swarm across the container yard, ducking in and out of enemy fire to the point. Jesse catches a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye, turns and shoots before the shape of another Talon agent comes into focus. The body jolts, shudders, and crumples to the ground, lifeless. He's lost count of how many remain. There can't be too many left now.

He turns back to the looming wall of the warehouse, the tiny door marking their exit. They're moving the wounded, Elliot with his arm slung over Nida's broad shoulders, one agent hauled over the back of another in a fireman's carry. Reyes is at the side, covering them, one shotgun in hand as the other presses to the comm in his ear. No one left behind, Jesse remembers. He sees Reyes's lips working over the orders for Athena to hold, his voice cracking to life in Jesse's ear a moment later with another shout to clear out, get moving, get safe.

The words nearly carry Jesse's feet towards the waiting shuttle before the ground heaves beneath him with a deafening rumble.

His eyes snap to the source just in time to see the burst of flame light the back of the warehouse in with searing yellows and reds. Reyes stands at the door still, backlit into inky shadow, a silhouette of a man against an explosion.

There's no time, Jesse thinks. There's no time.

But his body springs to motion regardless. A cry blistering from his lips as he dives forward, his shoulder and chest colliding with the bulk of Reyes's body, arms pulling at his weight him only moments before the ground rips open with a second blast.

Heat licks across the armor at Jesse's back, concrete grabbing and pulling at his body as it's shoved across yard before he collides against the steel bulk of a waiting container, shoving the air from his lungs. Jesse gasps, twisting against the pain. His head snaps up, looking towards the raging blast just in time to see another piece of debris hurtling towards him. He twists, flinging his left arm out in some vain attempt to stop it, and the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter I finally gave Nida a last name, Demir. I also gave Lekan a last name in my head but I didn't write it down so I've forgotten it. Oops.
> 
> [Catalan Bay](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catalan_Bay)  
> [Muuga Harbor](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muuga_Harbour)  
> I had some fun with the call signs too. Reyes's and Jesse's should be obvious, but here's [Baianai](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bai_Baianai) and [Red](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shango) [Storm](http://www.godchecker.com/pantheon/african-mythology.php?deity=SHANGO).
> 
> And now finally I get to the scene I've been trying to write for the past three chapters. Enjoy the cliffhanger, hopefully there will not be as much time before the next chapter comes since we're starting to get a bit more into the thick of it here. The new comic has also completely jossed me on the timing for when Jesse loses his arm but this is all an AU anyway so I don't care.
> 
> Let me know in the comments if there's any parts you liked! Or any sort of speculation and what you're looking forward to. I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> You can drop me a message at [my tumblr](shibaface.tumblr.com) too. If you've liked reading I'd love to hear from you!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the blast, Jesse must make a choice, one with consequences more dire than he might have imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you goes out to tumblr user [volokh](http://volokh.tumblr.com/) for their beta services!

Jesse remembers the flight back to base with all the detail and confusion of a fever dream. The searing heat of pain burning straight to bone is what keeps him awake. The shouts of agents around him, thick, broad arms under his shoulders and across his back reverberating with a low rumble that might be a voice, might be the hum of the engines, but none of it matters when there's pressure pulling tight around his arm, sending a new wave of pain shaking him down to the core. He tries to thrash against it, he thinks, pulling away on incoherent instinct only to be held down, pinned in place by firm hands and a rough voice in his ear.

"Hold tight--just hold on, we're out. We're clear. Just hold it until we get to base."

He doesn't want to obey, can't make sense of what's being said, but the exhaustion of his shaking body pulls on him like a physical weight, dragging him down into a restless sleep.

When he wakes again it's to bright lights and faces covered in white. He twists only to find he's been strapped down. Cries out when he feels what he's sure must be a live wire shoved deep into the muscle of his left arm. The white faces fly into a panic, hands at his shoulders, blue eyes bright and wide as they find his.

"Hold him down. I need him sedated," the voice is pitched in panic but Jesse thinks he might have known it, through a clearer mind.

"Jesse," it says to him, achingly soft. "Jesse I need you to hold still. It'll only be a moment. Please hold still."

Jesse works his lips, finds them parched and too slow to form any words before there's a sharp prick of pain against his upper arm and the swift creep of darkness at the edges of his vision.

He dreams in distorted shapes and images that won't hold still. A splatter of blood across a bright white apron. A smiling face he hasn't seen for years lit by the glow of candles on a birthday cake. Her lips move, urging him to make a wish, but the sound of it comes out distorted, mechanical. Emotion drains from each syllable and in the dream Jesse jerks away to see the shine of a reflection flashing over the image. Bright LED eyes flicker to life, staring him down impassively, pinning him beneath them.

He turns but they follow. He runs and suddenly the light of the candles flares to life, scorching the earth around him. He's left standing alone in a desert, staring up as the shapes of buzzards overhead blot out the midday sun. The only sound that greets him is a steady, high pitched beep, echoing in time with his heartbeat.

A frown twists over Jesse's face. That ain't right.

He reaches his left hand up, trying to shade the sun from his eyes, only for pain to dance up the limb like a fire lit inside his veins.

Jesse wakes with a jerk and a strangled shout. There's a clatter somewhere to his side, a clipboard dropped to the ground in surprise. His head twists toward it on instinct, and the room appears as a hazy blur a moment later.

A hospital room, the medbay. Pale blue and white walls that seem too bright to Jesse's eyes. He squints, trying to bring them into focus. There's movement, the sound of footsteps against linoleum tiles. Someone says his name.

"What--" he attempts and coughs instead, lips parched and dry.

"Careful, it might be a little difficult to speak at first. I'll get you something to drink," the voice says. It moves strangely, echoes in his mind like it's bouncing off the walls of a cavern too deep to see the bottom of.

Jesse groans, squeezing his eyes shut before he collapses back into his pillows.

There's a gentle touch to his shoulder before long, so soft that he can barely feel it through the cotton haze of painkillers clouding his senses. He opens his eyes and Angela's face comes into focus this time, clear enough now that he can see the lines of worry stretching at her lips, the center of her brow.

"Here, try to sit up a little," she says, coaxing him gently with one hand. "I've got you."

He shifts with her insistence, trying to press his palms to the bed only to twist back against the bed when pain shoots up his left arm again. A hiss escapes his teeth, grit against the sharp spike stabbing through dulled senses, and he turns to look at the damage that's been done.

"Jesse--" Angela cautions, but it's a moment too late.

Where Jesse's arm should be, where he swears he can feel a hand pressed to scratchy hospital bed sheets, there's nothing. He stares, dumbfounded, lifting the bandaged stump of what remains to see it more clearly, as if he'll simply find the rest of his missing limb hiding out beneath bloodied patches of gauze and tape.

"We didn't have a choice," Angela says without prompting, her voice quiet but firm in his ear. "The shrapnel from the blast had embedded itself in your bone and arteries. The damage was too extensive to repair."

"The blast?" Jesse turns, his attention momentarily caught by Angela's words. He remembers something, fire and a midday sun, but that doesn't fit right.

"Yes," Angela nods. Her lips purse into a tight line for a moment, a decision made behind steely eyes before she continues. "What do you remember of the mission, Jesse?"

"That's a good question," Jesse reaches up with his hand, his right hand, dragging his fingertips through the greasy mess of his hair. A frown curls over his lips, jumbled thoughts twisting through his mind as he tries to put them to rights. "Could I have that water, first?"

"Of course," Angela says, a careful smile over her lips. She fetches the glass from the bedside table, holding it up to his lips. "Here, drink up."

The story comes out in bits and pieces through a slow and stumbling conversation. Jesse remembers the fight, remembers the mission, doesn't remember much beyond the explosion, his split second decision to dive out and drag Reyes to safety.

"The Commander is doing well," Angela tells him. "Fortunately, his injuries were minor, thanks to your quick thinking."

"Glad to hear it," Jesse says in reply, the words catching over something thick in his throat that he can't quite identify.

He tires not long after, even the simple act of recounting their mission leaving sleep dragging heavy against his eyelids. Angela, ever the consummate professional, notices before he does, resting a hand on his shoulder as she moves to rise from her seat at his side.

"You should get your rest," she says. "We can discuss more regarding your condition once you've had some time to recover. I'll be sure to inform the Commander and the others that you're doing well."

"Thanks," Jesse murmurs, sleepiness making him agreeable. He doesn't even manage to keep his eyes open long enough to see Angela out the room, the heavy fog of exhaustion dragging him down into sleep.

The next few days find him in the company of either Angela or other members of the med bay staff. He gets the full story about his condition at length: a concussion, blood loss, contusions, burns, and scratches on the parts of his body that his armor didn't cover, with the majority of the damage done to his left arm.

Ana shows up one day, dressed crisply in her uniform which is a clear an indication as any that she's here on business and not pleasure. Jesse straightens as much as he can in his bed, trying not to jostle his injured arm.

"At ease, agent," she says with a wave of her hand, pulling up a chair to sit next to his bed. "The Strike Commander sent me to get an assessment of your condition."

"Couldn't he have just asked the doc?" Jesse frowns, curious as to why it's Morrison asking after him instead of Reyes.

"We've gotten the reports from the medical staff, but it isn't quite the same as hearing your own assessment of the situation," she says, a wry sort of smile twisting against her lips. "How are you feeling, Jesse?"

Jesse huffs at the sudden change in address. Ana isn't someone who bothers to conceal her concern. He can see it cleanly enough in the quiet intensity of her gaze, in the tight set of her jaw.

"Been better," he says, with a short nod to his left side. "Suppose you got the story."

"I did," Ana confirms with the slightest of nods. Jesse's sharp enough now to catch the gesture, to know the force of emotion hidden behind it. "That was quite an act of bravery, Jesse."

"Ain't nothing," Jesse says on instinct. There's a bruising pressure at the back of his throat, the corners of his eyes, something that's only built in the days he's spent recovering in the medbay, something that he's tried to avoid through the limited distractions of sleep and playing flirt with the staff responsible for him. "Just doing my duty."

"Yes, well," Ana shifts again, her posture straightening in the cheap plastic chair. "That's one of the reasons why I'm here. The Strike Commander would like you to know he commends the action that you've taken, the sacrifice that you've made in the name of Overwatch and the peace we seek to preserve." Her lips quirk, some of the formality leaving her tone. "He's grateful. We all are, really."

Jesse has to look away. He wishes for a moment that he had his familiar cowboy hat, just for the chance to tug it low over his eyes, to hide the aching strangeness of the flush creeping across his face and ears.

"Morrison didn't send you all the way out here just to say thanks, did he?" Jesse mutters, trying to affect a tone that's standoffish, but knowing full well that he's failed. 

Ana laughs, it's warm and easy from her lips. "I told him you'd say that, but he wasn't hearing any of it. At least you've got a warning next time you see him now."

"Well, thanks for that, Captain," Jesse mutters, scratching at the back of his neck with his good hand.

"You're welcome," she says pleasantly. "Although you're right, that isn't the reason I've been sent here to talk to you."

Jesse's gaze flicks over to her, watching out of the corner of his eye. She sees, giving him a knowing smile.

"Go on," he says, prompting her with a slight nod.

She nods in reply, settling her hands in his lap. "With the injuries that you've sustained, we understand that continuing in combat operations would be difficult. However, an organization like Overwatch does have access to the latest advancements in nanobiological prosthesis. Therefore, we'd like to offer you a choice. A proper one, this time."

Jesse drops his hand, his fingers twisting in the fabric of the sheets. He knows what's coming, but that doesn't prepare him, doesn't stop the strange sensation rising at the back of his neck, the unease twisting at his guts.

"You've served well, Jesse. You've shown yourself to be courageous, upstanding, a true hero. That's why, if you'd like for this to be the end, we'd be willing to let you go. An honorable discharge. You'll receive a proper pension, a commendation, a chance to choose a life for yourself, wherever that might be."

"I get my arm back?" he asks, the attempt at lighthearted humor ringing hollow even in his own ears.

Ana passes no comment on it, nodding that same, careful smile, all the same. "Maybe not something combat issue, but Dr. Zielger's been working on quite a few advances in her time here. I'm sure she'd be happy to hear you're interested in pursuing a life away from the battlefield."

"Wouldn't she just," Jesse breathes out.

An image rises unbidden to his mind, a memory stirred from years of rest. White picket fences looping around grass as green as he's ever seen, shutters and a shingled roof perfectly framing a brightly painted middle American suburban home. Just the sort of place that he wasn't meant for, once upon a time. He wonders how long Reyes would give him now. A year? Two? Or would he measure the time in hours and minutes?

The memory turns sour in his mouth and he swallows it down, shoving it away to rest, burying it under dust and blood and desert where it belongs.

Ana's sharp eyes are a blessing in this moment, catching the tension running tight over Jesse's shoulder, in the way his jaw works quietly beneath the growing shadow of his stubble and untrimmed beard.

She rises without waiting for another word, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder as she does.

"Take your time to think it over, Jesse," she says, squeezing against his taut muscles once before releasing him. "I'll let the Strike Commander know not to bother you for at least a few more days, though you know how impatient he can be."

"You'd think with all of that he'd be running around like a chicken with his head cut off," Jesse quips, offering Ana a lopsided grin in reply.

The shift in Ana's expression is so slight, so subtle, that Jesse's nearly certain he imagined it, but when the tension at the corner of her eyes holds, the timber of her voice wavering slightly in her words, he knows it's not his imagination.

"There's a lot on his mind these days," she says, as simple as that.

\---

True to Ana's word, there's no mention of the Strike Commander, or his little offer, for at least the next few days he spends in the medical ward. He's freed from his bedrest the next day, though not released from his quarters until he's completed a few rounds of physical therapy that morning.

He passes with flying colors, earning an official discharge with the promise of an upcoming surgery to address the issue of the missing limb on the horizon. Jesse seizes on his freedom, stretching his legs and making his way around headquarters, left arm slung at his side and hat on his head.

Yet after the week of his absence, there's a strange tension that's settled over the pristine hallways. Jesse tries to shake it off, tries to settle into the charming routine he's worked up with the familiar faces he sees throughout the hallways. But even with a wink and a grin or bit of flattery thrown their way it doesn't seem to dissipate.

Unsettled and still fatigued from the strain of recovery, Jesse finds himself passing through the access locked doors that lead to the Blackwatch quarters. With careful and quiet steps, he steers wide of the common room and mess, seeking the comfort and silence of his quarters instead.

There's a thin layer of dust that's settled over his things, the usual for a return from a long mission abroad, though Jesse's never had to face it after spending quite so long in the medbay. He scowls at it, debating the merits of airing the small room out when the panel set into the wall flickers, Pallas springing to life at his side.

"W-Welcome back, Agent McCree," the AI says, still stuttering. Winston's fixes aren't lasting very long these days. "You have twenty-seven unread communications, though only three of them are marked as urgent. Would you like me to read them for you?"

"Think the urgent ones are probably all that matters about now," Jesse says with a sigh. He lets his body crash down against the waiting comfort of his bed, willfully ignoring the musty cloud that kicks up in his wake. "Lay it on me, Pal."

"Acknowledged," Pallas replies. "Message sent November 21st at 4:23 am. Sender, Commander Gabriel Reyes, Subject, Lockdown. Body: In the wake of Operation Northern Lights all Blackwatch agents are on temporary lockdown. No missions will proceed without Level One authorization. Direct inquiries to your commanding officers in the field. End of transmission."

The date sticks out in Jesse's mind. Sent only two days after the strike, either Reyes recovered fast or he was working from the medbay. Probably the latter, knowing him. The lockdown isn't surprising, given the heated exchange between Reyes and Elliot in the empty warehouse, but before Jesse has time to linger on it, Pallas launches into the next message.

"Message sent November 25th at 7:46am. Sender, Strike Commander Jack Morrison. Subject, Regarding Our Mission and the Handling of Confidential Information. Body, To all agents, As I'm sure many of you already know our organization has come under increased scrutiny in lights of the events that have transpired as part of Blackwatch Operation Northern Lights in Muuga. I want to take this time to assure you that Overwatch's mission has been, and shall always be the pursuit of peace and global solidarity. We fight to preserve the lives of the innocent, to bring those who would threaten their safety to justice. I was as shocked to hear about the events in Muuga as I'm sure you were. Had we known that innocent lives were at risk, we would have acted with more care and precision. However, I would like to take this time to remind all agents that with the threats we face, the security of information pertaining to all Overwatch and Blackwatch operations is of the utmost importance. Any agents who disclose classified intelligence to outside sources will be suspended immediately with grounds for permanent dismissal and criminal charges. This is for your own protection, and for the protection of the lives that we fight to save. I thank you for your patience and understanding in these difficult times. Your Strike Commander, Jack Morrison. End of Transmission"

Pallas doesn't even get to the end of the message before Jesse's shoved himself up on his bed one-handed, staring at the wall panel with a sinking feeling settling in his gut. Innocent lives at risk? What the hell was Morrison on? Frantically he recounts the events at the warehouse only to pull up nothing. There had been no hostages, no other people involved aside from the Blackwatch strike teams and Talon hostiles.  The blast couldn't have hurt anyone, Reyes had made sure the warehouses nearby were abandoned when he scheduled the operation. There was just no damn way.

Without any command to stop, Pallas continues on, mechanical and impartial as he launches into the contents of the last message.

"Message sent November 25th at 11:09am. Sender, Commander Gabriel Reyes--Commander Gabriel Reyes requesting entry."

Jesse blinks at the sudden repetition, the strange message. Was Pallas glitching out again?

"What was that, buddy?"

"Commander Reyes is at the door," Pallas informs him blithely. "Shall I let him in?"

"Oh," Jesse says. So that was it. The anxious feeling twisting his stomach seems to kick itself into high gear. Reyes has always afforded his agents the privacy of their own quarters. Jesse can't recall a single time when he's seen their Commander visiting a Blackwatch agent in the barracks, for business or otherwise. He swallows, throat suddenly parched dry, Elliot's words ringing loud in his mind.

"Yeah, uh," he shakes his head, trying to dispel them, his good hand settling on the cowboy hat over his head to tug it lower over his eyes. "Let him in."

"Acknowledged," Pallas says.

The door at the far end of the hall hisses, sliding open to reveal Gabriel Reyes waiting on the other side. Jesse glances up, taking him in from beneath the brim of his hat. Barely a week after the incident and there's not a single scrape or scratch left to be seen on Reyes's face. Damn super-soldier enhancements and all.

He's dressed in his usual work attire, a black beanie pulled over his head, gloves and combat armor immaculate, the Overwatch and Blackwatch logos emblazoned on either shoulder. Powerful arms cross over his chest, his posture lax and seemingly bored, but there's a crack in his usually impassive facade. Jesse can only barely see it, the way that his lips pinch tight under the hair of his beard and moustache, the darkness of the bags hanging beneath his eyes, but it's there.

Reyes's eyes track to Jesse's left side almost immediately, taking stock of him, of the extent of his injury. Jesse shies back self-consciously, twisting a little on the bed as if to hide what's missing. Fortunately, Reyes catches himself. His gaze flicks up to Jesse's face a moment later, brows softening only slightly in a way that Jesse's almost tempted to call apologetic.

"Angela told me you're off med leave," Reyes says, breaking the silence as he steps into the room.

The door hisses shut behind him, leaving the two of them alone. Jesse resists the urge to fidget, his posture already on the defensive. He tries to shrug it off, gesturing vaguely with his good hand.

"Doc patched me up. Said I've got a clean bill of health, at least for the parts I've got left with me."

Reyes makes a rough sound at the back of his throat. One hand lifts to stroke against his chin, pulling at the hair of his beard. It's a nervous gesture that Jesse's seen on him before, though Jesse's damned if he knows what Reyes has to be nervous about here.

"Good to hear," Reyes says, pausing for a beat between his words. "I'm guessing Ana gave you the rundown."

It takes Jesse a moment to realize that Reyes isn't talking about the mess of the Strike Commander's message or whatever it was that Reyes had to say in reply but rather about the offer that Ana had extended to him on his hospital bed. A way out, an open door.

He swallows, trying to push away the strange feeling caught thick at the back of his throat, but it still sticks to his words even when he speaks.

"Yeah, she told me. You trying to get rid of me, Reyes?" he says in an attempt to play it off.

Reyes snorts, eyes narrowing to fix Jesse with one of his more familiar glares. "Is that what you think it is?"

"Well, I dunno," Jesse shrugs lightly. "Seem to recall a couple of years back someone told me he didn't think I'd last too long if I didn't stick around right where I was."

"And you wouldn't have," Reyes says with heavy certainty. He shifts where he's leaned against the wall to the side of Jesse's door, arms still crossed firmly over his chest. "But you're not the same as who you were back then."

"You saying you think I could make it now?" Jesse asks. There's uncertainty in the question, nothing hopeful, but some strange tension threading through the words nonetheless. 

"Maybe, maybe not," Reyes says, clipped and flat. "You're not a kid anymore, cowboy. Maybe you wouldn't make it with white picket fences, but no one's saying that's the life you've got to pick. You could take whatever you want. It'd be up to you, this time."

There's so much more in the barely contained emotion of Reyes's words than Jesse can possibly fathom. He'd been certain that Reyes would have caught on, that they all would have realized it, or at the very least that he would have had their suspicions. But this isn't that. This is about a far a cry as he could have imagined. The Gabriel Reyes in front of him isn't a man facing down a possible spy, a leak who's threatening to bring his entire organization crashing down around him.

Jesse didn't think he could have hoped for the trust that Gabriel Reyes has given him, but it's there in his words, concealed by bravado and his usual dry exterior. Jesse can see it, clear as day, and it hits him like a bullet to the chest, like a fist wrapped heavy around his neck.

Suddenly he's seventeen again, standing bathed in lurid red lights cutting shadows over the hangar of Watchpoint Grand Mesa. It's all the same, even if it's different. Reyes would let him go, if it's what he wanted. Reyes won't step in to stop him. But if he makes the right choice, the choice that Reyes wants for him, there'll be a welcome at the other end, the support of the team, those stupid birthday parties, and home cooked molettes.

Something snaps in Jesse, a crack like a whip, like lightning streaking across the sky, a split second warning before all hell breaks loose. The feeling ebbs, tight and angry, too hot and warm all at once, stinging the corners of his eyes and leaving goosebumps raising against his skin. He wants to shout, wants to scream his throat raw telling Reyes what a goddamn fool he is. Wants to tell him that he's offering mercy where it ain't deserved. That if he knows what's good for him, for Blackwatch, for all of them, he'd pin Jesse down now and never let him see the light of freedom again.

But he can't. He bites his lip, his body shaking with the visceral feeling that he knows damn well he can't. It isn't that Reyes wouldn't believe him. Hell, he'd believe him in the same heartbeat that would split the man in two from the twisted knife that Jesse's lodged firmly in his back. But if Reyes knows the omnic would damn well know. Pallas would know and Talon would be out for his head in an instant. He wouldn't last a minute, and where would that leave them all?

There's no way to conceal the rush of emotion from Reyes, even as he tries to fight it back. Jesse rubs the heel of his hand against hot tears against his cheeks, sucking in a tight breath with a choked curse whispered between it.

"McCree--?" Reyes is closer now, pushed off the wall, hovering in an uncertain space between the door and the foot of Jesse's bed.

"M'fine," Jesse grits out. He forces another breath through wet lungs, half-laughing half-sobbing with the pathetic picture that he's sure he makes right now. "Goddamn, boss, I'm fine."

"Easy there," Reyes says, his earlier hesitation gone. He settles heavy on the side of Jesse's bed, one broad hand touching to his shoulder, smoothing across the shaking muscles of his back.

Jesse hates how easy the comfort feels, how quickly he leans into it. His lips shake, a strangled sound twisting from them as he tries to move his tongue, too thick to make words.

"Shit, Jesse," there's something raw in Reyes's voice that Jesse's never heard before, but there's little time to dwell on it before the weight of Reyes's hold is hauling him in, pulling him tight against his side, his chest, both arms wrapping firmly around the width of Jesse's shoulders.

"Let it out, cowboy," Reyes mutters into the fabric of Jesse's hat where it crushes against his throat. Jesse thinks he must look ridiculous right now, the thought of it startling a wet laugh from his lips that's quickly swallowed by another deep, ugly sob.

"Let it out," Reyes says, unyielding, and Jesse does. His body shakes, shivering, emotion ripping dry and heavy from his throat. Through it all, Reyes is there to soothe him, a heavy pressure at his back, at his front, his voice cutting through the stifled sound of Jesse's tears like a knife, the weight of Reyes's own barely contained fervor hanging heavy on each word.

"Listen, you saved my ass back there. Saved us all with that shot of yours. I know the hero bullshit's not your thing, but that--that's what heroes do, Jesse. You proved us all wrong, proved everyone who thought a kid like you couldn't cut it wrong. I can't think of anyone else I'd rather have at my back. You did good, you've done the right thing. Not just in Muuga, not just this time, but time and time again. That's why you got this shot. I want you to understand that. This is what Morrison wanted, what all of us wanted. I know I didn't give you a choice back in Grand Mesa, so I'm giving it to you now Jesse. You want to take off, go on. You'll still be one of the finest men I've ever had in my service. But if you want to stay, you want to stick with me and take these bastards down, to show them that you don't mess with Blackwatch like this, then I promise you, we'll pay them back for what they did to you ten times over."

Jesse quiets by the end of it, his breathing slowed to a ragged, uneven rhythm. He pulls away and Reyes lets him, turns his gaze up to catch the clear, inescapable threat masked behind Reyes's dark eyes. His chest feels empty, his body drained and weary, but Reyes's determination seems to pour into him like a rainstorm over the desert. Jesse swallows it down his parched throat, offering Reyes a lopsided grin, looking up at him with blotchy-eyed adoration.

"Let's give 'em hell, boss."

\---

As it turns out, even with the most advanced cybernetic technology on the planet at her disposal, Angela still needs a little bit of time to get the issue of Jesse's arm all sorted out.

"First there's the construction," she tells him one day as he sits patiently in a chair of one of the exam rooms, letting her poke and prod at the healed up mess that is the remainder of his left arm. "Then a few surgeries to install the interface followed by calibration and physical therapy so that we can be sure the signals are transmitting correctly."

"Huh," Jesse muses, watching her white gloved hands press a piece of measuring tape flat across his ruined bicep before flitting away as quickly as they came to scribble something down on a nearby clipboard. "Here I though you'd just pull one outta your stash, pop it on and we'd be done."

Angela shakes her head at him, clicking her tongue lightly in dismissal of the thought. "Cybernetics are not so readily available, especially not the sort that need to endure the sort of rigor that you'll put this one up to."

"Wouldn't want to disappoint the boss with anything less than the best," Jesse says with a winning grin.

To his surprise, Angela smiles in reply, a light, feather soft thing against her delicate features. "Of course," a moment later, she adds, "I'm glad that you've chosen to stay with us, Jesse."

Jesse's words catch, a warmth fluttering just beneath his ribs, trying to swell too big for the tight space between them. He laughs, releasing a little of the tension, offering her a bright grin in reply. "Well, what can I say. Wouldn't wanna leave the job half done."

"I imagine not," Angela says lightly, diligently returning to her work at his arm.

All told, Angela's work takes the better part of a month, dragging straight into the chilly days and nights of late December. The construction is simple, at least for Jesse's part. His input is handled through a few joint meetings to review blueprints with Torbjorn, Angela and Reyes. Reyes provides specs, Torbjorn assists on mechanics, while Angela sighs heavily over Jesse's aesthetic choices despite Reyes's amused approval.

The surgeries are worse. Jesse's knocked out for each one, coming to under a haze of anaesthetic and painkillers.

"You'll want to be careful when the painkillers wear off," Angela tells him every time. "Your muscles and nerves will be agitated. Try to take it easy."

In hindsight, agitated seems like an understatement. What starts as a dull ache blossoms into a searing burn within hours. His left arm feels like it's been lit on fire, like every nerve ending's been plugged into a live wire, leaving electricity shocking hot and painful up the remaining length of his flesh and bone. The pills and biotic gels that Angela gives him for recovery help to numb the pain a little, but it still takes several days before Jesse doesn't find himself waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, phantom pain leaving him twisted and curled up in his sheets, pressing his good hand to the shaking muscle of his bicep, waiting for the pain to subside.

It's on one of those sleepless nights that he takes it upon himself to provide a distraction, wandering the halls of Headquarters until he finds himself out on the balcony that's attached to the cafeteria and break rooms. The chill of the winter air bites through his sweatpants, sweater, and the leather jacket he's slung over his shoulders, leaving goosebumps prickling over his arms, but the chill helps to numb some of the heat flaring up along his left arm.

That's enough of a balance for him, Jesse thinks, lighting up a cigarillo as he leans against the cold metal bars of the railing. The scenery stretching out before him is nothing short of breathtaking, a soft glow of city lights at the foot of the mountains below, shining like a beacon against the pale blue of the snowcapped mountains.

The pale gray of his smoke cuts a trail in bright moonlight, his thoughts twisting along with it.

The mystery of the messages Pallas had relayed to him before Reyes came in and interrupted weeks ago has been laid bare now. The operation at Muuga was a set up. Talon was using the tunnels under the warehouse as a holding ground for POWs and hostages. They'd rigged the whole thing to blow so when the rescue shuttles from Overwatch came to bail them out it'd look like Blackwatch had blown the whole thing sky high, innocents and all.

Jesse's gut still turns with the thought of it. Talon was smart about it, painting a picture of Blackwatch that the public and the media would eagerly sink their teeth into. Morrison was left scrambling to clean up the complete PR disaster, his insistence that Blackwatch was unaware of the civilian risk of the operation falling on deaf ears.

A twist of guilt sours with the taste of cigarillo smoke in Jesse's mouth and he breathes it out roughly through pinched lips. Talo's well on their way to getting what they wanted. Jesse can see it in the way the public scrutiny hangs heavy on Reyes's shoulders in their brief, regular check ins regarding the progress of Jesse's arm.

All told, Jesse knows he's made a real damn mess for himself here, but he'll be damned if he ain't gonna do his level best to fix it. Tiptoeing in the space between Blackwatch and Talon wasn't an easy task when he was running undercover work in Talon's name, and it won't be any easier now that he can't let Talon catch on that he won't be doing their dirty work any more.

You've got to keep your enemies close, Jesse thinks, and though he knows he damn well won't be letting this one slip, but he can't see a way out that leaves him coming out on top. Fudging figures and messing with reports is one thing, but that's only going to last him so long before they see the pattern. He damn well can't go dropping any more of their little presents into Pallas's systems either, not unless he wants to see a repeat of something like Muuga dragging Reyes through the mud again.

Jesse lets out a low groan, he left arm answering with an echoing throb of pain. There's no choice, not unless he just keeps himself to base and avoids any circumstances where the omnic might have a chance to find him, and even something like that's sure to arouse suspicion before too long.

There's a hiss of a door behind him, snapping Jesse from his thoughts as he twists on instinct only to come face to face with Strike Commander Morrison.

Morrison's dressed down, a thick parka zipped up over his broad chest with a pair of jeans tucked into some sturdy-looking boots. He lifts one gloved hand to Jesse, half-waving, half-signaling for him to stand down. Jesse feels his shoulders sagging at his sides almost on instinct.

"Hey," Morrison says, stepping out across the balcony to come to rest at Jesse's side. "Didn't think I'd find you here."

"What, you looking for me?" Jesse asks with a curious glance, tugging the cigarillo to his lips for another drag.

"No, not that. There's just usually not anyone else out here this late at night."

Jesse feels a scowl working over his lips, the implication in Morrison's words not lost on him. He doesn't see much of the Strike Commander these days, but in the dim blue of the moonlight it's easy enough to see the bags under his eyes, the heavy weight settled over his powerful shoulders. The years have softened Jesse's disdain for the man, but he still can't find himself feeling quite at ease in his presence.

"What's wrong, Morrison?" he asks, covering the discomfort with a glib jab instead, "Reyes ain't keeping you company?"

Morrison snorts in reply, his lips quirking with faint amusement.

"If it's not a mission he sleeps like the dead," he says plainly. "Snores like hell too. It's real cute."

"Now that I don't need to know," Jesse says with a sour look twisting across his face.

"You asked," Morrison replies with an easy shrug of his shoulders. Jesse only barely catches the shift in his expression out of the corner of his eye, Morrison's gaze softening into something private and adoring. "He needs his sleep too. Things haven't been easy on him."

Jesse jerks his head to the side, feeling like he's interrupted on something he shouldn't have, his cheeks suddenly burning from more than just the cold.

"Guess not," he mutters, watching the puff of breath carry the words out over the cold air.

There's a moment of silence that passes, the ember of Jesse's cigarillo flaring bright as he takes another drag, letting the smoke warm his lungs before he sighs it out with another heavy breath.

"He told me you're staying with us," Morrison says, still looking out over the icy blue mountain tops. "He's really grateful for that. It means a lot to him to have you at his back, to me too."

Jesse shifts from foot to foot, nervously trying to shake the strange discomfort of Morrison's words. Reyes always calls it his "for the cameras" voice, the way that Morrison speaks with earnest, unabashed honesty that makes anyone listening feel like they've just seen the man's heart. It's won the world over, and Jesse feels no different. He snubs the cigarillo out on the railing, reaching up to tug his hat down lower over his ears, ruddy and tender from the cold.

"It ain't nothing," Jesse mutters.

"It's something," Morrison corrects him immediately.

"Listen, Jesse," Morrison says carefully, each word clean and articulate as it falls from his lips. "Finding organizations like Talon and bringing them down is the reason why Overwatch was founded. We knew that just ending the Crisis wasn't enough, we knew that if we wanted to preserve the peace we'd found, we'd have to keep on fighting. But there's a lot that I can't do, that Overwatch can't do."

Jesse can feel Morrison's piercing gaze on him, refuses to turn to meet it. He knows he's not deserving of the praise that Morrison would give him, not in the way he means it. The hairs at the back of Jesse's neck rise on end, the muscles of his left arm throb with a dull insistence. Twisting in place, he reaches over to grip at it, the fingers of his right hand working over the soft material of his jacket.

"Come on, Morrison, you know I don't need your little song and dance..." he gripes, speaking around the thick weight of unspoken words at the back of his throat.

"That's not what this is," Morrison says with a sigh. Jesse sees him turn away, sees the hand that reaches up to drag roughly across the back of his neck. There's a pause, another moment of minute stillness in the cold night air before Morrison speaks again.

"This isn't going to get any easier," he says, and there's weight to the words, worry written in the hard line of Morrison's jaw. Jesse finds his gaze drawn to it despite himself, the rare display of emotion from Morrison catching him off guard.

"We've never fought something like Talon before," Morrison presses on, ducking his head with a heavy sigh. "I'm sure Gabe will tell you as soon as you're out, but Blackwatch's suspension is only for the cameras. Gerard's helping us with a counter strategy right now, and we're going to hit them back as hard as they've hit us."

He lifts his head, determination clear in the steady line of his jaw, the even cadence of his words. "I'm doing what I can to protect Gabe, to protect Blackwatch, but he's going to need more than just me. He's going to need you, Jesse."

Morrison turns and Jesse's caught in the intensity of his eyes, flashing bright in the sharp white of the moonlight overhead.

"I know I've never really asked much of you, but I want to ask you this," Morrison says, and Jesse finds himself held captive by the raw, aching plea in Morrison's face, in the lines drawn across his brow, the shadows hanging dark under his eyes against pale skin painted blue by the night sky.

Morrison works his jaw for a moment, the words building silently behind his lips. Yet somehow Jesse feels that he knows what they'll be even before they're spoken, he can see the shot before Morrison even pulls the trigger, but Jesse does nothing to pull himself out of its path.

"Promise me you'll have his back," Morrison says, and it hits Jesse square in his chest, a gentle, heavy pressure, sinking in against his ribs, pulling tight against his throat.

He swallows against it, resisting only for a moment before he lets it sink into his skin, lets it make itself at home as a gentle pressure against the nervous anticipation rolling heavy in his guts.

"You don't need to worry about that," he says, his jaw squared evenly, gaze held steady on Morrison's eyes. "I'll cover him."

\---

After the hell of recovering from the surgeries, the calibrations and therapy seem like a walk in the park. Angela refuses to install the new limb until Jesse's swelling goes down, until they can be sure that the skin has healed properly around the input ports with no unwanted scarring or infection.

It's a week before she's satisfied, then another week of hours long sessions in the medbay, wires strung from the small little access ports embedded into his skin to the waiting metal arm as Angela makes countless, minute adjustments, asking him to move this finger and that one, to make a fist, to tell her how much it hurts when she does this and that and a million other things.

It's only a few days before Christmas before Jesse sees the end of it. The holiday couldn't mean a damn thing to him for as much as he's bored to tears, itching to get back into the fight, to have a chance to test the limb out for real. It's about the sweetest song he's ever heard when Angela clicks one of the open ports on the side of the limb closed, takes a look over her handiwork and gives it a short, approving nod.

"Well, it seems like this should be an early present for you, Jesse. I think that's it. You shouldn't have any other problems."

"You mean that's it? You're all done?" Jesse asks, eyes wide with anticipation.

"Provided that you don't go breaking it, yes," Angela says with a smile. "Though given the quality of the materials Mr. Lindholm has provided us with, I don't think that's very likely."

Jesse lets out a short whoop of joy, hopping down from the exam table. "Thanks for all your hard work, Doc," he says to Angela, snatching his hat up off the table and onto his head just in time to tip it to her with a wide, eager grin. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta go give this little baby a test run."

"Do be careful!" Angela calls out as he slips from the room, faster than a bullet. "And call me if anything feels strange!"

"You got my word!" Jesse hollers back, all but bounding down the hallways of the medbay, calling for the elevator with a satisfying click of metal fingers against the button.

He grins, looking down at the limb, fingers flexing and curling into a fist. Reyes had told him to report in once Angela cleared him for combat, but that can wait. Jesse's got other plans for his newly recovered state.

The doors to the Blackwatch sparring room swing open with an energetic hiss, like music to Jesse's ears. He takes a deep breath in, the musty plastic of sparring mats, blood, and sweat layering thick over his tongue in a beautiful aroma.

"All right, boys and girls," he declares, striding into the room with a confident swagger, thumbs hooked into his belt. "Hope you didn't miss me too bad. Now, who's ready to have some fun?"

"Ah, it seems the angels have bestowed a gift on us today!" a voice rises in answer, Jesse turns to find Gerard standing apart from Nida in one of the sparring rings, a flush already bright over his face, padding strapped tight to his chest. "It is good to see you again, Monsieur Cowboy."

"Jesse!" Nida perks up with a wide grin, brushing sweat from her brow with one bandaged hand. "Did Dr. Zeigler finally let you go?"

"Doc says I'm good to go," Jesse says, bounding over to the two of them with barely contained enthusiasm. He waves his metal hand in greeting, twisting it so the fluorescent lights in the room catch on the pristine metal, the stylized skull stretched long over his forearm. "Figured ain't no better way to break it in than give this little baby a test drive."

"Ah, it does look like quite the piece of work," Gerard says, sharp eyes appraising the new prosthetic with a sharper grin on his face. "If it is a partner you seek, I will gladly offer my hand. It has been ages since we last danced, my American friend."

Beside him, Nida rolls her eyes at the display, reaching up to unclasp her equipment. "He's in one of those moods today, got all hopped up planning Talon strikes with Reyes," she says by way of explanation. "Let's see if you can wear him down, cowboy."

"Oh, it'd be my pleasure," Jesse laughs, stepping over to his locker to hang his hat and pull out his practice gear. "Hope you don't have plans with that pretty little wife of yours after this, Lacroix."

Gerard snorts in reply, rolling his shoulders to stretch out the kinks from his match with Nida. "If you mar my face, then you will need to answer to her, cowboy. I promise she is not gentle with her revenge."

"Well then," Jesse hums, pulling his practice vest over his head and pulling the straps tight. "You better know when to say when, partner."

"If I have to drag either of you back to the medbay, I'm telling Reyes about it first," Nida calls out from the sidelines. "Especially you, McCree."

"Nida," Jesse whines, turning to her with mock-pain written all over his face. "You wouldn't do that to little old me, would you?"

"In a heartbeat," Nida says with a smile.

"Don't worry, Monsieur Cowboy," Gerard says, giving Jesse a hearty slap to his shoulder. "I will have your back."

"Well ain't that nice of you, Lacroix," Jesse says with a grin, the adrenaline rushing through his veins making it easier to ignore the way the words leave a strange feeling tickling beneath his skin, like the pinprick of being caught in a sniper's sights. "Good to know I've got someone looking out for me."

"But of course," Gerard twists his fingers in the fabric of Jesse's gear, tugging him over towards the mat. "Now come. We dance. And you will show me why every man and woman of Talon will regret ever crossing the name of Blackwatch."

Jesse stumbles only once, twisting to free himself from Gerard's hold and settle into a proper fighting stance. "Darling," he says, sucking in a sweet breath of the heavy air hanging over the mat, "They ain't seen nothing yet."

\---

The bustle of Headquarters during the holidays and the planning of Blackwatch's strikes against Talon leave the end of the year passing with a blur of activity that keeps Jesse's mind well away from any worries he might have had about Talon and his little omnic friend.

After Muuga, Reyes is stressing security of their operations more than ever. They're running double, even triple recon sweeps of any potential target points, sending agents in deep for intel, running each scrap of information they get through a meticulous vetting process to make sure they've got it right. Pallas is kept online, fed enough details to keep from raising suspicion, while the planning of the real strikes take place in air-gapped chambers with cleaned devices and a closed network.

Jesse finds himself caught in the thick of it, tossed this way and that across the globe, tracking targets, staking out locations, reporting into Reyes only when he's made his way back to base in Switzerland. The briefings are usually short, no-nonsense affairs deep in the belly of Headquarters, each one of them providing another length of rope to allow Reyes and Lacroix to wind the careful noose they plan on pulling tight around Talon's neck.

Downtime is a precious commodity that Jesse usually uses fighting off jet lag and keeping his skills sharp in the training grounds.

It's a cheery summer day in August when one such trip down to the lower levels of Headquarters finds an unexpected guest abruptly colliding with his chest in the hallway leading up to the elevators. Jesse barely manages to get his feet under him, a startled "Whoa there," slipping from his lips before the mystery figure perks up, strong arms tossed around his shoulders in a crushing bear hug.

"Jesse!" Fareeha crows with delight, releasing him from her grip only to catch his wrist, dragging him around a corner. "It's good to see you. Come on, this way, hurry it up!"

"Wait--what--?" Jesse barely has time to stammer the words around before he's jerked down a hall and into a narrow stairwell where Fareeha takes the steps two at a time. He slaps a hand to his head, holding his hat in place as he stumbles after her. "Hey, slow up, Fareeha, you just about killed me back there."

"You know that's not true," Fareeha shoots over her shoulder, sticking her tongue out at Jesse for good measure. "Or have you gotten rusty?"

"Ain't nothing like that," Jesse snorts, finally catching up to Fareeha's breakneck pace. "Maybe you're just getting better."

"Better than Blackwatch?" Fareeha grins before releasing his hand, catching the railing and diving down a flight of four stairs in a single bound.

The years and her time spent in officer training have done quite a bit to change Fareeha from the wide eyed little girl he knew years ago. Lithe muscle and a few more feet of height leave her as a picture perfect image of the sort of recruits that Morrison's ushering through the door day in and day out. There isn't a soul on Headquarters that doesn't know how much Fareeha longs to be one of them, but without Ana's approval it's all just a pipe dream.

Still, it doesn't stop her from sneaking in on holiday, finding her way down to the training grounds and mess halls to challenge any willing opponents to a spar, at least until Athena sees fit to inform the Captain of her presence.

Jesse's been her partner more often than not, much to Ana's chagrin, but he's not one to stand in the way of Fareeha's boundless enthusiasm.

"Maybe not that," Jesse quips back, spurs jangling as he gives chase. "We'll have to go toe to toe on the mat to figure that one out."

"I'm not going easy on you this time!" Fareeha says, swinging to a halt in front of the door for the training level, nearly bouncing in place as she waits for Jesse to swipe his access code at the door. "You've gotten used to the new arm by now, haven't you?"

Jesse chuffs, holding the door open with his left hand and nodding her through. "Come on, sweetheart, gimme more credit than that. Feels just like the old one now."

"Good," Fareeha says with a resolute nod. She strides past him, catching his wrist again as she does to tug him down the hallway towards the gym. "You know, you had me worried there."

"I know, I know," Jesse says with sudden softness to his tone. "Ain't gonna go pulling something like that again, you got my word."

Fareeha had been there for him as well in the aftermath of the attack, a worried presence at his bedside while he recovered from his surgeries, and dozens of messages day in and day out to keep him occupied. He's more grateful than he knows how to admit for her presence, but knowing Fareeha, giving her a chance to spar against him is just the sort of thank you gift that she's looking for.

"I'm holding you to that," Fareeha says, her hand pulsing lightly against Jesse's wrist before she releases him, tapping against the access panel to open up the sparring room door. She turns on him, her smile subdued, brown eyes warm with unspoken fondness. "But for now, you'd better give me a good fight."

Jesse's learned how to speak past the swell in his throat now, the warm, wide feeling that stretches his ribs at seeing that sort look in an Amari's eyes. He meets Fareeha with an easy smile and a tip of his hat.

"It'd be my pleasure."

As it turns out, the training grounds are anything but empty. A few newer Overwatch recruits cast suspicious glances their way, murmured conversations inaudible over the sounds from the mats, but the wave and call of "She's with me," that Jesse offers seems to silence them well enough.

They're four matches in, evenly tied in a best three out of five contest, when the door slides open with a new arrival. Jesse's head snaps up, sweat-slicked hair slapping against his forehead as he catches sight of Gerard making his way towards the edge of the mat.

"Ah, it seems that I have missed my chance to enjoy the blessing of Mademoiselle Fareeha's company," Gerard says on his approach, favoring both of them with a casual wave.

"Gerard!" Fareeha pipes up, bouncing to her feet with a grin. "I'll still have time for you if you don't tell Mom I'm here."

"What was that?" Gerard says, lifting a hand to his ear and his gaze to the sky. "For a second I thought I heard a chirping little bird. How strange. Do you hear it, my cowboy friend?"

"You must be getting rusty, Lacroix," Jesse says with a grin. "Ain't no bird in here."

"Well then," Gerard shrugs his shoulders in a wide display. "I suppose I will simply have to sit here and observe until you are done dancing with yourself."

"I'd be much obliged," Jesse quips, falling back into position across the mat from Fareeha.

A well-timed sweep to his legs and an elbow landed against his chest marks Jesse's defeat in the fifth round, Fareeha claiming victory with wild enthusiasm. Gerard applauds them both from the sidelines, pushing himself up to approach before Jesse's even managed to get his breath back.

"Well done, well done," he says to Fareeha before turning a sharp edged smirk on Jesse. "Monsieur Cowboy I think you would do well to make sure that our Gabriel does not learn of this."

"Ain't nobody gonna tell Reyes," Jesse scoffs. He throws a weak punch to Gerard's arm, shoving off him towards the benches lining the room. "She's all yours now. You'd best be careful if you know what's good for you."

"I am never anything but," Gerard says with a flippant wave of his hand.

"We'll see about that," Fareeha says confidently from the mat, arms crossed over her shoulders, feet spread wide across. "Jesse was just the warm up, you know."

"Hey now!" Jesse interjects with a hurt tone, barely loud enough to be heard over Gerard's sudden, barking laughter.

"She has sharpened her tongue on you as well, cowboy," he shoots over at Jesse before bouncing on the balls of his feet into a fighting pose, attention focused wholly on Fareeha. "But I would have you know, little bird, that I have been cutting my teeth on harder stuff than him. I have made the whole of Talon fear the name Gerard--"

"Lacroix!" 

The door stands open, the imposing figure of Ana Amari framed by it. Yet to Jesse's surprise, as her piercing gaze sweeps the room, it comes to rest not on himself or Fareeha, but squarely on the back of Gerard Lacroix.

Gerard straightens under her scrutiny, turning to face her properly with all the crisp precision a superior officer demands.

"Captain?" he asks, his gaze only momentarily straying to where Fareeha stands at his side, a silent question as to why Ana's attention is drawn elsewhere.

"I'll deal with Fareeha later," Ana says in response, the gesture not escaping her notice. "This is urgent. We've been trying to contact you on the comm for the past hour."

A frown twists over Gerard's features, his gaze flicking to Athena's interface panel to the left of the door in an unspoken question. Ana answers him with a short shake of her head, the gesture so quick that Jesse's not sure if he imagined it. They couldn't use Athena to convey the information, which means it's something classified, something related to Talon.

The hairs at the back of Jesse's neck stand on end. He finds himself straightening his posture, standing at attention even though he's not the one called to task.

Gerard only answers Ana with a nod, a short shift of his chin, before he breaks formality with an expressive sigh, both hands waving to dispel the tension in the air.

"It seems our time is cut short, little bird, cowboy. Perhaps we shall have a chance to dance again later!"

"Oh, yes..." Fareeha startles visibly, her attention still caught by the tension heavy on the air around them, by the unwavering stare her mother has fixed on her.

"Jesse," Ana says, turning to catch his gaze out of the corner of her eye. "Why don't you and Fareeha clean up and get something to eat? I'll see you in the mess hall."

"Yes ma'am," Jesse replies on instinct, at a loss for anything else to do in the face of such a strange order.

"Very well," Ana answers before turning on her heel to follow Gerard's retreating form.

The hiss of the door snapping shut behind them echos in the silence of the room. Jesse swallows once, clearing his throat, before turning to offer Fareeha his best attempt at a winning smile.

"Come on now, you heard her. Let's get going."

"Right," Fareeha answers, momentarily dumbfounded, before she turns to make her way to the locker rooms.

They make their way out of the training room in uncomfortable silence, neither willing to broach the topic until Fareeha catches his shoulder, leaning in close to whisper in hushed tones.

"What do you think that was all about?" she asks, her eyes watching the surveillance cameras lining the hallway.

"Don't know," Jesse mutters, "But I reckon it ain't good."

\---

By the end of the night, Jesse knows. There's a note from Reyes waiting at his room, a summons to the mission control room deep within headquarters. Even the mounting feeling of dread that's built like a physical presence at the back of his throat can't prepare him or the news that waits there.

It's only Reyes and Lacroix in the room when he enters, the former with his hands braced heavily against the table, a grimace twisted over his features, the latter staring down at the files spread out before them with a hollow look in his usually bright eyes.

Talon has kidnapped Amelie Lacroix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear lord it has been too long. Apologies for the delay, everyone! I got wrapped up in cons and writing for the R76 Big Bang, Blackwatch Zine, and R76 Zine so my writing time's been a little bit tied up. Fortunately my travel for cons is done, my big bang posts later this week, and work on the zines is progressing smoothly so the next chapter shouldn't take quite so long.
> 
> As always, let me know in the comments if there's any parts you liked! Or any sort of speculation and what you're looking forward to. I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> You can drop me a message at [my tumblr](shibaface.tumblr.com) too!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two missions and a funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you goes out to tumblr user [volokh](http://volokh.tumblr.com/) for their beta services!

Jesse presses his back flat against the pristine walls of a Talon facility hidden beneath an unassuming office building in the business district of Stuttgart, knuckles white against the grip of his gun, and remembers to breathe. His chest shudders as he exhales, breath hot against the black mask pulled up over his chin to conceal his features.

"Gamma at point 7, all clear," he whispers.

"Well done, Gamma," Gerard's voice sparks to life in his ear, even and contained over the comms. He hadn't been allowed on the ground, too much at stake, Reyes said, but with some insistence Reyes had allowed him to take point on coordination. There was no denying that Gerard Lacroix was a ruthless man when he had his eyes set on a target.

"Alpha, status?"

"Point 9, secure," Reyes murmurs in reply, his voice as clear as if he were looming over Jesse's side, but he knows that Reyes is further down the hallway with Nida at his back. The two of them are closing in on the center of the facility, the containment room where their intelligence says that Amelie is held.

It's only been three months since her capture, which Jesse knows is three months too long in Gerard's opinion.

The Talon agents who had taken her had been thorough, precise. There were no signs of forced entry into the Lacroix household where it overlooked Lake Annecy. Any signs of struggle had been meticulously cleared away, surfaces wiped clean of any fingerprints of omnic exhaust reside. Surveillance cameras within a mile radius had been knocked out prior to the kidnapping, all hit with the same virus that had shut them down, looping empty footage, only to bring the systems back up to normal an hour after Amelie was found missing.

The first month of the investigation had been frantic. With no evidence and even less in the way of a lead, they'd had little to go on other than their existing intelligence on Talon outposts. Gerard had worked tirelessly, scouring every piece of intel they had, nearly working himself to bone until Reyes had stepped in and set him right.

They were a team, Blackwatch looked out for its own.

It may not have brought back Amelie right then and there, but it had at least snapped Gerard out of the state he'd been in, sharpened his mind to the task at hand. They'd caught their break just a few days later, a bit of intel slipped from a reliable source that had given them a location. When recon had confirmed their suspicions, a plan came together fast, throwing Jesse, Nida, and Reyes straight into the belly of the beast.

Jesse wants to hold onto hope that they'll do this one right, that the extra security, the measures they've taken against the claws Talon has already sunk into the organization will prove worthwhile. There's a heavy, burning need at the back of his throat, a fervent wish that things will work out now that he's not passing intel along to the enemy, now that he's made his choice, the right choice. This won't be Muuga, he tells himself. It won't be Cambodia, won't be countless other missions jeopardized by his stupid choice to sell out the people who've taken him in, who saw the good in him when he thought there was none.

Yet as much as he tries to cling to it, as much as he repeats the mantra to settle the unease building in his gut, Jesse can't quite shake the tense feeling prickling along the back of his neck. He slips from sterile hallway to sterile hallway, catching only glimpses of unnerving devices beyond the narrow windows lining his path. The stretches of silence between check in points leave his blood hammering loud in his ears, but not quite loud enough to drown out his own thoughts.

This place ain't like any Talon facility he's seen before. Whatever they're doing here, it sure as hell ain't building weapons or launching cyber attacks or anything like that. It's almost medical, a twisted mirror image of the familiar hallways of the med bay in Geneva, an echo of the work Angela's done to save so many lives, perverted to some unknown cause. He catches glimpses of empty stretchers in abandoned rooms, of tables with leather straps hanging neglected at their sides, strange contraptions that look like they're made to fit over a human skull, but to what end he can't even imagine.

"Point 10, secure," Reyes's voice sounds in his ear again. "Final position. You ready to cover us, Gamma?"

Jesse darts forward down the hall, over the incapacitated bodies of Talon guards at his feet, Reyes and Nida's handiwork. He turns a corner and he can see them further down, flanking a set of double doors to either side. He ducks into a crouch, turning back to scan the path behind them, a sweep for any incoming hostiles, when he sees it.

It's just a flash, out of the corner of his eye, a reflection against sleek black metal, the glowing LEDs of the same impassive faceplate that haunts his dreams more often than not. He turns without thinking, rifle raised in his hand, finger hovering over the trigger when Gerard hisses in his ear, his voice clipped and tight.

"Gamma, your vitals are out of line. What's going on?"

The voice is enough to snap him clear. He blinks, swallows a gasping breath down his throat. There's nothing there, no omnic, just the glint of halogen lights against the smooth black surface of an access panel.

"Nothing," Jesse says, voice still tight in his throat. He lowers the barrel of his gun, presses his finger tight against the trigger guard. One breath slips past his lips, then another. His throat bobs as he swallows them down. "Just thought I saw something, ain't nothing. All clear."

"Acknowledged," Gerard says. He pauses, Jesse can hear his breath in the static on the line, slow, methodical, steady. Jesse's eyes drift half closed, trying to time his own breathing to it. Ain't nothing to worry about, he whispers in his mind. They've got this.

The command comes a moment later.

"Alpha, Beta, strike."

The sound of the doors swinging open echoes down the hall with the heavy fall of Reyes and Nida's footsteps. Their voices crack to life over the comms, hushed whispers ringing in Jesse's ears.

"Left clear, no hostiles.

"Right clear, no hostiles. Eyes on target, moving for retrieval."

There's sounds of feet scuffing against the floor, an unintelligible low rumble that must be Reyes barely picking up on the comms. Jesse presses harder against the wall, looking left and right down the empty hallways. They're still clear.

"Target nonresponsive, but vitals are green," Nida cuts in. "Going for carry out."

"Confirmed," Gerard bites out his reply. "You're still flying under radar, get out as quick as you can."

"We're moving," Reyes says. "Gamma, report."

"All clear," Jesse hisses back without hesitation. "Getting a little lonely up here, let's get a mosey on it."

"Cut the chatter," Reyes grunts at him, but Jesse can hear the hint of a smile in his words. They're pulling it off. "Beta and I are en route to your position, moving to phase carry out."

"I read you." Jesse shifts, squaring his shoulders against the wall. The steady thud of footsteps down the hallway echoes in time with the heavy thud of his heart in his ears. A moment later Reyes sweeps past him with Nida close on his heels, the prone, unconscious form of Amelie Lacroix slung over his shoulders.

Amelie's pale, is the first thought that strikes his mind. Paler than before, but the harsh glare of the lights overhead and the bleached white fabric of the sheet she's wrapped in aren't doing her any favors. He swallows, disconcerted by the way her head lolls against Nida's back, strands of dark hair hanging loose from the haphazard bun at the nape of her neck to cascade down to the floor.

"Come on, cowboy," Nida says with a jerk of her chin. "Let's get outta here."

Jesse shakes his head with a crisp nod, adrenaline prickling at the back of his neck, over the tense muscles of his arms and legs.

"Thought you'd never ask."

In just five minutes, they're gone. Back out the way they came, leaving nothing more than the unconscious forms of a dozen or so Talon guards in their wake. There's no reinforcements, no resistance, just a blazing path made through shining white hallways, round and round up the stairwell entryway, out into the open air and straight into a waiting hover car in the loading dock at the back of the building.

Lekan's at the wheel, fingers drumming a nervous tattoo against the hard plastic. Jesse drops into the seat next to him, tugging his mask down and off his face with a wild grin that nearly sends Lekan leaping from his seat.

"Christ, cowboy, you almost--" he bites out before the back door slams open, Reyes and Nida barreling in before slamming it shut.

Reyes jerks his head up, silencing whatever question was waiting on Lekan's lips with the force of his glare alone.

"Move out, now!" he barks, and the car jerks to life. Lekan's eyes are bright as he turns his focus to the road ahead, pulling them easily out into the traffic of the crowded [] streets.

It might not be as dramatic as Jesse would have liked, but with the sight of Amelie Lacroix spread across the back seat and not a single pursuer in sight, he'll take it. 

\---

Gerard isn't there to thank them at the mission debrief, so Reyes does the honors for him.

"He's grateful, really he is," Reyes chuffs, paging through the papers spread out before him on the small conference room table. "As I'm sure you can imagine."

"Who wouldn't be?" Nida says with a wan smile. "You know we'd all be the same way if it happened to us."

"Thought maybe a bit worse off if it happened to Reyes," Lekan quips in, a half-hearted attempt at lightening the mood.

It does at least draw a hint of a smile from Reyes's drawn features. "If anyone wants to try to kidnap the Strike Commander, they can be my guest."

"Should we tell him you said that?" Jesse asks with a quirk of one eyebrow, thumbing his hat a little higher over his brow.

"If you want a few months of probation," Reyes shoots back, cutting off the remaining chatter with a sharp gesture. "We're still trying to figure out what happened to her in there. That wasn't just a holding cell. Talon's up to something."

"Maybe have the good doc take a look?" Jesse suggests with a mild tone, trying not to draw any further censure.

Reyes looks up at him, brows drawn beneath the hem of his beanie.

"Dr. Ziegler isn't cleared for an operation at this level," he says flatly. "We'd be inviting too much risk to even think of putting her on it."

"Was just a thought," Jesse answers, lifting his hands lightly in surrender.

"Not a bad one," Reyes mutters, so quiet that Jesse's almost not sure he heard it right. But there's no time to question before Reyes flips the folder in front of him shut. "You all get two weeks leave for recovery. Do what you want with it, but remember the new security protocols. Safehouse transit and details are here if you need them." He taps another folder on the desk for emphasis before rising from the table with a wave of his hand.

"That's all, dismissed. Get out of here."

"Yes sir," comes the chorus in reply. Reyes sweeps from the room without another word, the door snapping shut behind him.

"Something tells me he needs two weeks of leave," Nida says with a sigh, reaching out for the safehouse folder. "Maybe more."

"Maybe a month or two, more like" Jesse says with a scowl over his features, his eyes still fixed on the closed door. "Don't think I've seen him look this worse for the wear in a while now."

"There's a lot riding on the operation," Lekan points out, fingertips playing over the edge of the table. "I heard that Director Petras has eyes on it now. That he's practically breathing down our necks. It's not good."

"Where'd you hear that?" Nida asks, glancing up from her documents.

"Private Kayode, over at Watchpoint Numbani. We were stationed in special forces together."

"You're gossiping with the boys in blue now, Lekan?" Nida says with an amused quirk to her lips.

"Come on, we're all on the same side," Lekan protests. "We just go out for drinks sometimes, whenever I'm down there."

"Dunno, sounds like fraternization to me," Jesse joins in, tugging at his beard in contemplation.

"Not you too, cowboy," Lekan huffs, rolling his eyes with an emphatic scowl. "It's called taking a load off. I don't think I've even seen you off base in the last year. When's the last time you went for drinks?"

"You know it's been busy," Jesse points out, pushing himself up from the table, doing his best to dodge the topic. "Plus I don't wanna go playing third wheel to your little dates with Kayode."

"McCree!" Lekan protests, only barely audible over Nida's barking laughter.

"Nice one, Jesse," she says, clapping Jesse on the back with a grin as they all make their way from the room. "Though you know, you don't play the third wheel when you bring someone along for the ride. What about that good doc of yours?"

"No way," Jesse waves his hand in dismissal. "Doc's married to her work, you know that."

"Fareeha then?" she teases, a playful grin on her lips. "I've seen the way you two throw down on the mat."

"Only if I wanted Captain Amari to have my head," Jesse retorts with a shudder, checking both ways down the hall just in case.

"Here I thought you liked to live dangerously," Lekan pipes up, happy to have the conversation straying away from his personal affairs.

"There's danger and there's suicide," Jesse points out, jabbing his finger in Lekan's direction. "'Sides, she's more like a sister to me. On lockdown too, just got a message from her before the op whining about how much she hates the safe house."

"That's right, she would be," Nida muses with a twist to her smile. "Though Prisha said the accommodations aren't so bad this time."

"Yeah, but your wife and Fareeha ain't nothing alike, Demir," Jesse says with a shrug.

"He's got you there," Lekan adds with a considering nod.

"You've got me, you've got me," Nida says nodding along in good humor. "Although she did tell me she met there's this nice guy from Argentina at her office now, asked me if 'that cowboy you work with' needs any help practicing his Spanish."

"Since when did this turn into you and your wife trying to hook me up?" Jesse fixes Nida with an incredulous scowl.

"Since Lekan's got a point," she replies easily. "We've got two weeks off, seems like you've been going full throttle since Muuga. Take it easy for a little while, Jesse. You've earned it."

"Some of the other agents are going for drinks tonight," Lekan supplies helpfully. "That is, if you don't mind a little bit of fraternization."

Jesse glances back and forth between the two of them and knows he's caught. The threat of the omnic had kept him on base, kept him running as fast and hard as he could into any mission that came his way. If he surrounds himself with agents from Overwatch and Blackwatch alike maybe he could avoid notice, he thinks. Maybe the damn thing wouldn't be that brazen.

It's not enough to settle the unease in his gut, the tension that's made itself at home over his shoulders and at the base of his neck, but it does well enough. He shrugs, lifting both hands up in surrender.

"All right, you got me. When are ya'll gonna head out?"

\---

Much to Jesse's gratitude, two weeks pass without incident. The chill in the November air gives him plenty of reason to make his way off base without his signature hat, to disguise his features under scarves and hoods without raising any suspicion. He still plays it safe, still doesn't make his way out into the city without at least a handful of other agents at his side, but fortunately with tensions riding high the other agents are more than happy for the chance to escape and let off some steam.

The notice for the briefing on his next mission comes two days before his leave is up. Jesse quirks an eyebrow at the name on the case, he's got no idea what Serpentine's supposed to mean, but pays it no mind until he makes his way down to the briefing room, right on schedule, and throws the doors open only to find it empty.

For a moment he wonders if he's gotten the time wrong, but a cursory glance at the folder in hand and the clocks on the wall tells him that's not the case. Yet there's not a trace of Reyes or Gerard to be seen, not the usual clutter of papers and pens across the room's single table, no coffee cups or napkins, no nothing.

That's all the more time it takes before the alarm start to buzz at the back of Jesse's mind, a quiet, pealing little whine setting his hairs on edge, leaving him ducking back out into the hall, looking left and right for a sign of either of his superior officers.

There's nothing.

With a scowl, Jesse turns back to the empty room. It's not like Reyes to be late. Reyes is never late. But more to the point, the four walls he stands inside of now have practically been a home to the man over the past year. Save for missions, he's seen more of Reyes inside this room than out of it. Whatever Serpentine is, it's sure to have at least occupied the time up until the briefing. Reyes wouldn't let anything pull him away unless it was something big.

Jesse taps a foot against the floor in an agitated staccato, glancing back up to the clock. They're five minutes late now. Too late. It don't take that long to get across headquarters, Jesse thinks. There ain't a place in the whole base Reyes could be that he wouldn't be here already, even if he'd been running late. Which he wouldn't, he reminds himself. Doesn't. Never has and never will.

Unease gnaws at his gut, his metal hand slowly clenches and unclenches against the skin on his right bicep. What the hell does he do now? There's no protocol for when your commanding officer doesn't show up, at least none that Jesse's been briefed on in his years spent with Blackwatch. Gnawing at his lip with his eyes flicking between the door and the clock on the wall, he tries to work out where Reyes might be. The training grounds, no way. Mess hall, not likely. His quarters, maybe. Morrison's office, probably.

Jesse digs his teeth harder into the flesh of his lip at the last thought. The tension between the two of them hasn't escaped notice around base. Morrison and Reyes are pretty much a paragon of keeping their private affairs private, but it doesn't take an idiot to see that all the attention Blackwatch is getting and the PR game Morrison has to play to run damage control are taking its toll on their relationship.

Morrison's words from a year ago ring heavy in Jesse's ears. His gut twists with the memory. How the hell is he supposed to cover Reyes when he's too busy covering his own damn ass?

Still, that just about makes his mind up. With a rough exhale, Jesse pushes himself off the wall, stalking towards Morrison's office.

The hallways of headquarters slip away in a blur, the uneasy feeling in his gut refusing to abate with each step forward. Every pithy excuse his mind manages to conjure up to explain away Reyes's absence just serves as fuel for the fire. Something ain't right, and it's no small thing at that.

He's just about to round the corner of the hallway leading to Morrison's office, heels pushing off with a skidding burst of nervous energy. He's close enough to the answer now. Hastily, he closes in on the door he needs, fist lifted to knock, when the sound of muted voices interrupts him.

"How the hell was I supposed to know, Jack?"

Jesse freezes, his hand hanging in midair, staring blankly at the polished surface of the door before him.

He's never heard Reyes like that before. Even when Reyes came to comfort him after his surgery, even in the days after Amelie's kidnapping, he's never heard so much raw anger and hurt poured into the other man's voice. It arrests him, freezes his blood and muscles straight to bone, leaving a gaping pit of dread stretching like a black and open maw between his ribs.

What the hell happened?

Morrison's reply is unintelligible, inaudible from behind the door. He's controlling his tone, speaking softer, with that poise and polish that's always set him apart from Reyes. Jesse leans forward, straining to make out the works, when a sharp, angry bark from Reyes cuts him off.

"That's fucking bullshit and you know it! The objective was Amelie. If we'd tried to pull a stunt like that then the whole thing would have been compromised--hell, I shouldn't even be talking to you about it in a place like this--"

"Do you think I'm compromised, Gabe? Do you really think they've gotten this far?" Morrison's retort is clear and loud enough for Jesse to hear. He bites at his tongue with the irony of the statement, one hand lifting to knock again.

"I don't know, Jack," Reyes says, and there's something mournful in the tone, something deeply shaken beneath the simmering heat of his rage. The next few words are too quiet for Jesse to hear and that's all it takes for him to swallow, steeling his resolve and snapping his hand against the door in a crisp, loud, knock.

"Strike Commander? It's me," he calls out, loud enough to be heard. "Was wondering if you knew where Commander Reyes got off to. Had a meeting with him about now and it ain't like him to miss that sorta thing."

There's silence on the other side of the door. It stretches long, almost too long, before the door slides open, revealing the bright blue of Morrison's Strike Commander uniform.

"McCree," he says quietly.

Face to face now, Jesse can see the red shooting through his eyes, the damp trails shining against the dark bags hanging under his eyes. Morrison turns, glancing over to where Reyes sits hunched over in one of the chairs reserved for the Strike Commander's visitors.

Reyes's hands are braced against his knees, knuckles pulling tight at the fabric of his pants. His head lifts to meet Jesse's gaze, brows drawn tight over a dark, inscrutable glare, his jaw set tight. Jesse feels pinned, held down, analyzed and picked apart in the space of the instant it takes Reyes to narrow his eyes, lips drawing into a firm line before he looks back to Morrison with a jerk of his chin.

"Let him in," he says.

Morrison nods, submitting to Reyes's command, as he ushers Jesse into the room.

The door slides shut behind them, leaving the three men standing in the heavy silence of the room. It's then that Jesse realizes that Morrison's terminals, the constant barrage of newsfeeds and updates that normally stream constantly through the screens built into his office walls and desk are silent. Even Athena's familiar logo is absent from the console set into the wall, an impassive black sheet of glass meeting him instead.

Jesse turns, looking from Morrison to Reyes. The shift in authority is clear, the palpable weight of tension in the room settling over his shoulders and leaving them drawn with tension.

"Commander?" he asks, hesitant.

Reyes looks at him, no, looks through him. The heat leaves his eyes, his expression going slack, blank and glossy as the empty screens around them, before his nostrils flare with a heavy breath, his hands pressing hard against his thighs as he straightens in his seat, shoulders squared with every bit of power and intimidation he can muster.

"Lacroix's gone."

McCree's breath winds into a knot in his throat, choking his voice out into silence. His jaw drops, gaping, before he spurs it into working again, tongue thick in his mouth.

"Commander?" he repeats, still dumbfounded.

"Lacroix," Reyes repeats, the name taking on a rough edge, a rusted knife, twisted in a wound. "They found him in the morning. Throat cut. Two shots to the head. Dead on the scene."

"What in the seven hells--" Jesse sputters. His eyes are burning, his skin is burning, he feels like every nerve's been set alight, a live wire sparking wild in his chest. "You gotta be--" he whips his gaze to Morrison, to Reyes. Morrison refuses to look at him, his gaze fixed to a point in the wall just above Reyes's head, blue eyes misty and distant.

"We just got his goddamn wife back!" Jesse spits in desperation, his thoughts still reeling like wildfire, a conflagration that won't come under control. "You telling me they got back in after all that--"

"No," Reyes shakes his head, a sharp motion that cuts Jesse to silence. "Amelie's the one who did it."

The fires sputter and die in an instant. The tension in the room seizes around them, sucking the air from Jesse's lungs.

"You gotta be--" he starts, the words dying when he meets the mettle in Reyes's eyes. As impossible as it sounds, it's true. There's no way that Reyes would pull shit on him over something like this.

"She's gone off the grid again," Reyes says by way of explanation. "Surveillance caught her leaving the area, identified her prints on the weapon. It was a message, they wanted us to know she did it."

"But why would they..." Jesse attempts again, his mind racing to pull together the straws of everything that Reyes has dumped on him. Amelie never showed any signs of defecting, the omnic never mentioned her either. If Talon had its claws in her, that had to mean something else. Something had happened.

"Lacroix and Reyes were closing in on members of Talon leadership," Morrison says, his voice curt and to the point. "Lacroix's information network was indispensible in our efforts. They must have traced it back to him, and this was their way of striking back."

"We had Ziegler run schematics on some of the intel from the facility where we picked up Amelie," Reyes continues for him. "She's not sure, never seen anything like that before, but it looks like the kind of show they were running there was some kind of lab for mental conditioning, reprogramming. Brainwashing shit."

"Hell of a way to get at him," Jesse says. "Ain't there some way to get her back?"

The quick flick of his gaze between Morrison and Reyes doesn't go unnoticed. Morrison's eyes follow his, worry creasing at the corners of his lips. Reyes stares back at Jesse straight on, eyes sharp and unyielding.

"Angela thinks that their might be some way," Morrison begins, his voice strained. "But we can't tell for certain--"

"It's not a priority," Reyes cuts him off. "Announcement's going out soon. We're increasing security and protective measures for the families of any agents in the field. If anyone wants to bail on us, switch ranks to the boys in blue, they've got my clearance. But if Talon wants to fight dirty, we're going to put them through a world of hurt."

Something unspoken dies on Morrison's lips, Jesse can see it in the way he shifts, posture tightening as his jaw clenches. Whatever it is, it remains unspoken swallowed down with the tenuous trust that Morrison has for Reyes in the situation.

There's no time to wonder over it before Reyes cuts the conversation short, pushing himself to his feet and brushing past Jesse with a hand to his shoulder.

"Let's go, cowboy," he says, his words a gruff command.

Morrison turns to watch him. For a second Jesse wonders if his silence will hold, before his voice cuts through with a single word.

"Gabe."

Reyes's back stills before him, shadowed by the light streaming in from the open door.

"We'll talk later, Jack," he says, then steps away.

Jesse finds himself caught, staring back at Morrison. Morrison looks to him. He doesn't even need to speak for the promise from that wintery night to echo in Jesse's ears, catching in his throat.

With a nod, Jesse answers the unspoken plea before turning to leave Morrison in silence.

\---

"How's your Japanese, cowboy?" is the first thing Reyes asks him once they're back in the briefing room.

Jesse's brain stalls a moment, his mouth working open and closed, before he finds an answer. "Pretty bad? Thought you usually had Huynh running Asia ops?"

"Huynh took the out," Reyes answers curtly, the words punctuated by the slap of a folder on the desk. "He won't be the first. This isn't a job for you if you've got family, but no one wants to think about getting stabbed in the back by the person closest to them. We have to run lean, pull our weight, take care of everyone who's left."

"Beg pardon, boss, but ain't that just giving them the advantage?" Jesse cautions. He's not one for strategy, but the way Reyes is talking sounds more like desperation than precision.

"And what?" Reyes asks with a pointed glare. "We sit back licking our wounds giving them a chance to come up with more ways to make our lives hell? Talon doesn't rest, Jesse. They know where they hit us and they're trying to press the advantage."

His fingers catch against the corner of the folder and he flips it open, turning it around with a twist of his fingertips to shove in Jesse's direction. There on the table in front of him are a handful of glossy photographs, surveillance cameras, candid shots. They show a meeting between two figures. One, a man, about Jesse's age, dressed in a well-tailored business suit wears a stern expression on his face, but it's the other that catches Jesse's eye. He can barely stop his eyes from going wide as he takes in the familiar curve of a sleek black faceplate and impassive face of his omnic friend.

Heart racing, Jesse turns up from the pictures to find Reyes's gaze captured by the documents spread on the table.

He swallows once, reining his voice under control, before he asks, "What's all this?"

"That," Reyes says, tapping one finger against the picture of the omnic, "Is a known Talon operative. Some kind of envoy. We've seen them send that bot out when they're trying to make inroads with new allies, establish connections. Word on the street is he works for some guy named Maximilian. Based out of Monaco."

"And that," he continues, tapping against the man, "is Hanzo Shimada. Newly-appointed head of the Shimada-gumi, one of the most powerful yakuza organizations in Japan. Yakuza usually keep themselves out of international affairs. Most of what they deal in is pretty domestic. At least, that was how Hanzo's old man Sojiro saw it. Word on the street is that since he kicked the bucket a few months back the upper council's had their sights set on bigger things, leveraging the remaining unrest in the area to expand. And Talon's more than happy to help them make that happen."

The image of the omnic and the Shimada head springs all too easily to Jesse's mind. He pushes down against the intimate familiarity with the game being played here. If Blackwatch means to make a move against their new alliance, they'll have to strike fast, or their efforts will turn into nothing more than fodder to sweeten the omnic's deal.

"And where do we fit in?" he asks, gaze fixed on Reyes, waiting for instruction.

"We play devil's advocate," Reyes says, finally looking up from the intel spread in front of him. "There's a reason why yakuza usually stay domestic. It's easier to keep the local cops in your back pocket than it is to go bribing port authorities and government officials halfway around the world. Shimada family hasn't caused us any trouble in the past. Hell, they even helped out with the JDF and the reconstruction effort in the Crisis. A reminder of why they don't want to go causing trouble for Blackwatch should put them in their place."

"So you're saying we go direct?" Jesse says, lips twisted in thought. "Dunno if they'll take too kindly to us just popping in letting them know we've been snooping around in the family business."

"I don't need them to like it," Reyes says with flat dismissal. "I need them to know the hell that we'll bring down on their heads if they don't stay in line."

He leans back, arms crossing over his chest with a scowl fixed over his face. Jesse can see the calculated anger flashing under the expression, his mind racing behind dark eyes, crafting the workings of a careful trap to cut Talon's hopes of bringing Shimada into the fold short.

"We run intel first," he continues. "We know Talon's made contact, but we need to know what kind of offer's on the table. We find what they're promising, who their contacts are, scope them out, turn any opportunity we find into a liability for Shimada. Once we've got the noose around their necks, then we go in and ask them whether or not they want us to pull it tight."

Reyes looks back to Jesse, he jaw set straight. This is the Reyes who leads, who commands, who rules his kingdom with an iron fist. Jesse feels his posture straighten on instinct. He knows what's coming.

"You're on surveillance. Elliot's your back up. The two of you have three days to establish your alias then I'm putting you on a one way ticket out to Hanamura. Be a tourist, a oil tycoon, whatever. We need to know everything that's on the table. You've got one months on this, then I'm flying out to meet you and we take everything we've got to the man himself. Understood?"

There was a time when it was rare to see Reyes go to ground on his own missions. Usually he keeps out of it, kept safe, but Jesse realizes that there isn't safety in the distance anymore. Not after what had happened to Gerard. It's up to him, up to Elliot and all of them, to make sure Reyes is safe. He turns his chin up, meeting Reyes's gaze with a short, precise nod.

"Sir, yes sir."

\---

Jesse sighs, rolling the kinks out of his shoulders and settles back into position in the shadows atop one of the walls overlooking the grounds of Shimada Castle. It's an unseasonably warm evening in early May, a muggy wind blowing in off the mountains leaving the colorful fish-shaped windsocks flying from nearly every window in the bright, moonlight night. Koinobori, Jesse got from a local when he asked about it. It was all for some celebration of the kids of a family, so their kids would grow up strong as a fish who swam against the stream to become a dragon or something. Black fish for the father, red fish for the mother, then all the kids in order, blue, green, and so on. The local, a nice little old lady named Chie, was all too happy to tell him about the impressive streamers that used to fly up over Shimada Castle in recent years, Black for Sojiro, blue for Hanzo, green for Genji.

"Their poor mother though," she said with a shake of her head. "Passed away when Genji was just a baby. They say their father spoiled him for it, you know."

"Bet there's worse than being spoiled by your daddy when he's a crime lord," Jesse mutters under his breath, remembering the story.

He knows the rumors about Genji now, of which there are plenty. As it turns out, Sojiro's permissive attitude towards his younger son meant Genji had made a name for himself as a playboy, a flirt, and a man about town. Where folks talked about Hanzo as stern and serious, respectful of his elders and holding the best interests of the family in mind, it seemed like Genji couldn't care less for the business of being a yakuza.

Jesse can't help but admit he's a little taken with Genji's lackadaisical attitude towards the whole family business, a little jealous of it too. It'd be nice to just cut loose and ignore the looming threat of Talon that's hovering over both of their heads, but a mission is a mission. If he wants to save what he's got, save Blackwatch, there's no way forward but to do what Reyes wants of him.

Still, if he sneaks off to Genji's usual haunts a time or two, sharing a drink and an evening pressed tight enough together to tease tantalizing bits of gossip from Genji's lips on the dance floor, it's still for the good of the mission.

Genji's against the whole Talon thing, Jesse finds. Doesn't much want to talk about it even. It seems like Hanzo's hesitant on it too, but his brother's bound by the will of the elders. Jesse's other sources tell him that the rough road to recovery Japan faced after the Crisis means there hasn't been much in the way of business for the Shimada family in recent years. Sojiro had gone lax in his later years, too. The death of his wife, Aiko, hit him hard, burying most of the ambition he'd showed in his youth, which was bad news for business.

"Ain't nothing but the old farts that we gotta worry about," he sighs under his breath, settling back in with his binoculars pulled up to take stock of the Shimada Castle grounds.

"I swear to fucking god if I have to tell you to cut it with the chatter one more time," Elliot's voice snaps to life in his ear, an irritated groan with no real heat behind it.

"Silly me, did I leave that thing on?" Jesse answers with a cheeky grin, scanning the garden for signs of movement.

"Permission to fire on the stupid fucking cowboy, commander?" Elliot snaps back at him.

"Denied," Reyes's voice joins in with an irritated grunt. "Keep your sights on the castle. I need to know who's coming and going."

Reyes flew in just a day after they'd learned that the omnic tried to sweeten the deal with the Shimada family, putting a deadline on the table. If they don't sign on in the next week, every bit of business the omnic promises is gone, swept away to rival families in the area and competing crime syndicates across Hong Kong, Taiwan, Korea, and China. Jesse can tell the move's a good one for how much it's gotten under Hanzo's skin. There's been meetings almost constantly in the past few days, family elders flocking the castle with the newly-appointed clan head looking more and more agitated every time Jesse sees him peek out from the protection of the castle walls.

It's nearing a breaking point, and Reyes knows it. Their plan's come together in the past several days, though even Reyes is tight-lipped on exactly what he's got in store. All Jesse knows is that he plans to make his way into Shimada Castle on the next day to lay down Blackwatch's terms in front of Hanzo.

Jesse hasn't pressed, he knows he can trust Reyes in this.

"Hey, I've got a green fish swimming up the river," Elliot's voice cuts back in. "Smack dab in the middle."

Jesse's focus draws back to the the city beyond the walls, his binoculars sweeping down to where he sees Genji's familiar figure making his way back home from a night on the town, only a slight wobble to his step.

"Confirmed," he says. "Green fish's going up river. Looks like he got a little thirsty."

"Keep eyes on it," Reyes says, his tone heavy with a sudden intensity. "It's getting home all right?"

Jesse frowns a little at the question. Reyes had shown an interest in Genji, particularly in the nature of his relationship to Hanzo, but he didn't think the younger brother would be much use this late in the game.

"Looks like it," he answers. "Just a little slippery, but seems like it's all right."

"Dunno about that," Elliot chimes in. "Blue fish on the waterfall. Looking real fucking rotten tonight."

Jesse sweeps his device over to focus in on the open doors to the dojo at the far end of the castle grounds. Sure enough, Hanzo's there. He's backlit by the warm, golden glow of the lanterns from inside the grounds, but Jesse can make out his crisp pressed practice gear, the sword strapped to his side.

"I'd say he's looking ready to bite," he says. "Don't they usually keep to the bamboo ones for practice?"

"Doesn't look like fucking practice to me," Elliot grunts in reply.

There's silence on the line. Jesse glances over to where he knows Elliot and Reyes are watching from a hotel room overlooking the castle grounds. The occasional glint of moonlight against Elliot's scope is the only sign of them he sees before Reyes breaks the silence, his voice low, an unnamed tension prickling on the air. "Keep your eye on blue. Don't let it out of your sight."

"Copy that," Jesse says. "Going riverside."

Jesse lifts himself slowly from his perch, making his way across the tiles of the castle wall as silently as he can. They've played cautious up until now. The Shimada keep a tight patrol on their residence, men and omnics prowling the grounds even into the dead of night. Jesse and Elliot have watched them long enough to know their patterns, to know how to evade notice, but Reyes has never given the order to move in until now.

Over the courtyard, Jesse hears Genji's footsteps and the occasional snatch of drunken singing as he moves along the same course. A good night out, from the looks of it, but even bits and pieces of some upbeat idol song that Jesse can't make out don't seem to lift the tension from the air. Across the way, he can see where Hanzo stands impassive, monolithic, and most definitely fixing for some manner of confrontation.

Jesse creeps into his second position, a window ledge out of sight of the patrol paths that offers him a vantage point of both the courtyard and dojo. He doesn't need his binoculars from up here, he's close enough to make out the subtle shifts in Hanzo's posture in the shadows spilling from the dojo's warm light.

"I'm riverside," Jesse says, his voice soft. "Green's almost here."

"Hold position," Reyes says. "Do not reveal yourself under any circumstances, understood?"

"Yes sir," Jesse whispers, crouching lower into the shadows on instinct.

Genji's offkey singing cuts off abruptly with a cheerful shout of "Hanzo!" as the younger Shimada finally catches sight of his waiting brother.

Unfortunately for Genji, Hanzo doesn't seem too pleased at his little brother's arrival. Jesse can only pick up snatches of the conversation, but there's a recon mic strapped to the gear at his waist. He fishes it out, fiddling with the controls to crank the sensitivity up.

"You hearing this?" he whispers.

"Loud and clear," Reyes replies, the stony weight of his words all but confirming Jesse's suspicions of what Hanzo's barking at Genji down below.

"Keep the line clear," Reyes cautions him. "Keep visual."

"I got it," Jesse says, peeking up over the window ledge just in time to see Genji sweep past his brother with an irritated groan, crossing out onto the floor of the dojo a moment later with angry footfalls. Genji turns, Jesse does his best to recede into the shadow of his cover, but Genji's eyes aren't on him at all.

It's Hanzo who's earned the full force of Genji's anger. He's shouting loud enough for Jesse to hear, but talking too fast and too slurred for him to follow the tirade. It's something to do with their father, their mother, and Jesse's sure he can hear "that damn omnic" tossed in a time or two for good measure.

Hanzo's reply, when it comes, is muffled by the wood of the entry way, but the low threat of his tone carries through, leaving Jesse's hair standing on end.

"Green's in the dojo now," he whispers. "Blue's still in the entryway."

"Hold," is all Reyes says to him, the word a tight, singular command.

"Copy," Jesse says, swallowing hard against the weight at the back of his throat. There's something about to go down here, he can feel it in the charge on the air, a near palpable spark at his fingertips as they drop to the rifle holstered at his side.

Beneath him the argument pitches louder, more incensed. Genji's goaded Hanzo into raising his voice. A wicked, pleased look spreads across his face at drawing a reaction from his brother. From the sound of Hanzo's snarling words, it ain't much of a good thing. Hanzo's rising to Genji's bait, stepping out onto the dojo floor, one hand catching Genji by the fabric of his jacket, one still gripped tightly on the hilt of the sword at his hip.

"Blue's on green," Jesse hisses, voice tight as he sees the light shining off the lacquer of Hanzo's sheath, the tip of it quivering over the soft tatami mats.

"Hold," Reyes repeats himself over the sound of Genji's sudden laughter. Boisterously loud, it echoes off the rafters overhead. Jesse feels his whole body go tense as Genji pushes himself out of Hanzo's grip.

" _ You don't know what you're doing _ ," Genji spits, and Jesse can hear at least that much, before the younger Shimada turns away, moving to the stairs at either end of the dojo's far wall.

"Green's going," Jesse says, a breath of relief on the words. "You want me to get back--"

A flash of movement in the dojo below cuts Jesse short, the wet slap of steel cutting skin splitting the silence only a moment before Genji's cry of pain pierces his ears. Jesse's eyes go wide, his body frozen in the shadows. Hanzo stands, his back to Jesse, expression hidden, still as a statue. The blood runs down his blade in thin red streaks, dripping slowly onto the tatami mat below its tip.

If he's got anything to say, it's buried beneath the hissing sobs wrested from Genji's throat. Through the seam cut in his flesh and sinew Jesse can see the white of his spine, his ribs, split from the force of the blow that drags from shoulder to waist. His body crumples to the ground in a growing pool of blood, legs limp beneath him. A hand shoots out, trying to grab at the dojo steps, drag his body up, but even the twist is enough to jar the gaping wound, leaving another whimper to fill the air.

Blood pounds in Jesse's ears, his heart racing, breath caught. It ain't that he's never seen death before. It's nothing like that. But to see a brother cut down his own family is something so much worse.

"Status," Reyes hisses in his ear like a ghost, the visceral growl snapping Jesse back to focus. "Give me a status, now!"

"Green's down--he's bad, real bad," Jesse fumbles out, only barely remembering to keep his voice low, not that it matters much with the noise of the commotion down below. "Blue went at him. Took him with his back turned."

"Shit," Reyes snaps. "The guards are moving in, keep your cover."

"They're what?" Jesse balks a moment before half a dozen yakuza men and omnics in crisp white suits flood the dojo floor below.

They rush towards Genji's writhing form, clearly assuming that this is some sort of accident, some kind of misunderstanding, but it's Hanzo who stills them with a raised hand and a single command.

" _ Leave him _ ," Hanzo says, the words carrying without a tremble, without a trace of emotion on them.

Jesse can't piece together the rest, his mind moving too fast and too slow all at once, but a single word draws his focus back.

" _ Call the omnic _ ," Hanzo says, the foreign sound of the word on his lips forcing Jesse back to attention. Unaware of Jesse's presence, Hanzo turns to the man standing closest to him. " _ Tell it I have made a decision. _ "

His decree issued, Hanzo steps away from his brother's body and back into the castle proper without so much as a second glance. At the door of the dojo he pauses, only for a moment, to give one last command over his shoulder.

" _ Leave him somewhere where he will not be found, but do not finish the job. He should have time to consider the consequences of his actions before the end. _ "

Genji snarls in protest from the dojo floor, pushing his body up by the strength of his one good arm.

" _ You coward! _ " he spits, voice rough and wet with pain. " _ You won't even give me an honorable death? What would father think--if he saw you-- _ "

" _ Our father is dead, _ " Hanzo barks, rage flaring in his tone. " _ My word is law now. _ "

" _ You wear your newfound cruelty so well, brother _ ," Genji snarls like the wounded beast he is, his arm shaking with the effort of holding his body aloft.

" _ Enough! _ " Hanzo snaps, turning to the men around him. " _ Get him out of my sight! He conspires against us. He is a traitor to our family! _ "

There's only a moment's hesitation before two of the guards crowd forward, reaching for Genji's prone body on the dojo floor. A howl of pain rips from his throat as they lift him, jarring the wound at his back, swiftly dragging the body away. The sound of his struggle, the scuff of their footsteps on the wood floors echoes, before Genji lets forth a final, blood curdling yell, and falls silent.

Jesse stares, his throat dry, back pressed hard into the ceiling beam that gives him cover. The comm in his ear hisses and pops with white noise and the heavy cadence of Reyes's breathing, before a single, unwavering question shoots through it.

"Where's Green?"

"They--took him out," Jesse whispers, ripping his eyes away from the smear of blood on the dojo floor to focus on Reyes's voice, on the mission at hand. "Side door. Think they tossed him over the edge."

He pauses, sucking in a tight breath through his lips, the murmurs of hushed conversation and footfalls of guards returning to their stations rising around him.

"Think I best be getting outta here," Jesse says, "Before they find me--"

"No," Reyes cuts him off. "Go after him."

Jesse jerks up at the command, his gaze flicking between the door that Hanzo vanished through and the pathway to the balcony across the way where the guards hauled Genji's body off.

"Which one?"

"Green," Reyes says, his voice an order that brokers no argument. "We need him alive."

"What the hell, boss?!" Jesse snaps without thinking. "Didn't you hear me? He got cut to hell. I saw his fucking spine and then they went and tossed him over a cliff. There ain't no way he's gonna survive something like--"

"That wasn't a request," Reyes says. His voice pitches low, nearly threatening. "Retrieve Green. You leave his survival to me."

Jesse freezes, voice caught in his throat, every muscle in his body suddenly stilled by the force of Reyes's words. There's no way, he thinks. No way for Genji to survive. No way to save any bit of the mess that Operation Serpentine has become in this single night.

But there's no way for him to turn back either. If Reyes gives an order, he means for it to be followed.

"Copy that," McCree replies over his comm, hoping that Reyes won't be able to hear the rough edge to his voice. "Retrieval mission underway."

He holds position until he's sure the guards have left the path unobstructed, until he's sure the way is clear, before he darts off to the balcony overlooking Hanamura at the edge of the dojo. The smear of blood ends just before the sturdy oak of the railings, dark enough to look black in the moonlight above. Jesse takes one look at it, the coppery tang resting thick on his tongue as he breathes in deep before plunging over the edge into the darkness below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So life circumstances means my writing pace has slowed considerably since I started this, but I do intend to see the story through to its finish! We're just getting to the good shit now!
> 
> As always, feel free to leave comments if there's any parts you liked! Or any sort of speculation and what you're looking forward to. I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> You can also hit me up at at [my tumblr](http://shibaface.tumblr.com) or subscribe to the fic/my AO3 if you like my work!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An offer on the table once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you goes out to tumblr user [volokh](http://volokh.tumblr.com/) for their beta services!

The spring air whipping over the open balcony in Geneva is unseasonably cold, biting through the layers of Jesse's clothes, but he can't find it within himself to move. In his time with Deadlock and Blackwatch combined he's seen his fair share of things that would make a lesser man's stomach turn itself inside out. Yet for some reason Genji sticks with him. If he closes his eyes, he can still see the blood spattered dark against the rock walls of Shimada Castle. If he breathes in too deep he can still smell the copper tang on the air, the wet reek of the mossy river below. Without the tempo of his foot tapping impatiently against the floor, the sound of Genji's labored, wet breaths hot on his ear threaten to leave him deaf, even though it's been hours now since he pulled Genji's body out of the mud and muck, dragging him down the riverbed with Reyes hissing directions in his ear until he made the rendezvous with the dropship that sped them back to Headquarters faster than the blink of an eye.

Everything in between is a blur now. Reyes relieved him of the burden of Genji's body as soon as he arrived, taking point on stabilizing the younger Shimada's condition with Mercy giving instructions from the video line. Jesse sat in the corner of ship, blood soaking straight to skin beneath his armor, the back of his head pressed to the cold steel of the ship's hull, the webbing of his harness feeling like the only thing grounding him in place.

Reyes gave him the day off, gave him the whole damn week off, but he's in no place to rest right now.

With a rough exhale he grinds another cigarillo out on the balcony railing, reaching for the pack in his back pocket to light up again. Angela will have his head to see him out here, but Angela isn't in much of a state to argue with anyone at the moment. Jesse spares a glance back and up towards Headquarters, his eyes straying to the windows lining the exterior hall of the medbay. She's up there now, working furiously to stabilize Genji's condition. The medbay staff was waiting when the ship landed, a flurry of motion saw the younger Shimada loaded up on a gurney and whisked away without a second thought.

Angela herself only lingered for a moment, sharing a hushed exchange of words with Reyes, her face tight with worry. Jesse couldn't tell if there'd been some kind of argument, some sort of disagreement, but the serious glint in Angela's eyes, the harsh line of her lips pressed together seemed to say enough.

She'd had the same look on her face when they'd discussed the application of her biotic technology to Ana's rifle, when Reyes had pressed for more military grade specs in the replacement for Jesse's arm. Even if she was a pacifist at heart, it wasn't the first time Reyes asked her to make him a weapon, nor would it be the last.

Jesse shakes his head, trying to dispel the thought, trying to burn away the look of concern he'd seen on Angela's face with a long drag on his cigarillo. There's not much he can do about it anyway. As much as the familiarity might lead him to think otherwise, when it comes down to it, Reyes's word is law.

"Thought I told you to rest up, cowboy."

Jesse leaps in place, nearly dropping his cigarillo as he turns to see Reyes stalking towards him across the balcony. He must be more tired than he thought if he didn't hear the door hiss marking Reyes's arrival, but there's no real time to think on it before Reyes is settling against the railing next to him, giving the lit cigarillo a pointed glare.

"You'd better not let Dr. Ziegler see you with that."

"She ain't gonna see nothing," Jesse protests, turning just enough to hide the cigarillo from Reyes's gaze.

Reyes scoffs, turning up to pin his dark eyes on Jesse instead. "And what about you resting? I need you ready for the next mission."

"Thought you put me on leave," Jesse replies with a pointed look. "On account of everything that's--the whole Serpentine thing."

"Leave doesn't mean I'm letting you go soft," Reyes says.

There's a threat under the words. Reyes will make sure Jesse stays at peak performance, even if Jesse doesn't. But standing this close, the two of them caught in the clear light of a springtime Geneva day, Jesse can see the bags under Reyes's eyes that betray the worry. He can see the gray dusting his hair under the fringe of the beanie, the way his skin creases around the scars stretched across his cheek.

Jesse's not allowed to fuck up, but only because Reyes doesn't want to lose an agent in the field, doesn't want to see one of his own facing the sort of fate they just rescued Genji from.

Jesse turns, pulling the cigarillo up to his lips for a rough, short drag, letting the smoke out in an angry puff from his lips.

"Ain't going soft, boss. All that just took me by surprise, is all."

Reyes grunts in reply, turning to look out across the mountains, the long slope leading down to the city below. Jesse steals a glance, only now that he's sure Reyes's attention isn't on him, and takes in the look of Reyes in profile, his features standing out strong against the bright blue sky around them.

A question curls in Jesse's chest, uneasy and nagging, begging for the chance to slip past his lips. Genji was practically dead when Jesse found him, it'll be a miracle if Angela manages to stabilize him, but even then Jesse saw the extent of the damage Hanzo did first hand. The sword cut to bone, sliced straight through sinew and muscle to bite into the white of Genji's spine. His guts had spilled out behind him, ribs split clean in two, the pink flesh of his lungs peeking out between them.

Jesse's left hand curls and uncurls at his side, fingers shifting against the grip they have on his cigarillo. He knows damn well what Angela's capable of, but he's never seen a man live through a blow like that. It'd take nothing short of a miracle. Reyes certainly hadn't known that when he'd given the order for retrieval, but there's no way he doesn't know now. There's no way he didn't know when he gave the orders to Angela before she rushed Genji off to the med bay.

Just what had he asked her to do? What were his plans for Genji Shimada in all of this? 

"Should have moved faster," Reyes interrupts Jesse's silence with a rough exhale. His arms are crossed tight over his chest, his body leaning against the edge of the railing, brows creased in thought.

Jesse swallows against the tumult in his chest, turning away to follow Reyes's gaze for a moment. There's no arguing with that statement. He knows as well as Reyes does that the omnic--that Talon has their claws in Hanzo now, in the Shimada. It's another blow after Gerard's death, one that Jesse helped leave them wide open for.

"You think we coulda saved him?" he asks, tentative, the tense flurry of worry and curiosity winning out in the end.

"You mean Genji?" Reyes asks, turning to Jesse with one eyebrow raised in question. At Jesse's nod, he gives a huff, standing up straighter, chin jutting up in defiance. "He'll live. Dr. Ziegler's working on him now."

"He--what?" Jesse can't hide how startled he is by the confidence in Reyes's tone. 

"He'll live," Reyes says again. There's not a shred of doubt in his words, not this time. "He's damn lucky though. We've had Dr. Ziegler working prototypes for months, the same kind of stuff that gave you your arm back." He nods to Jesse, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. "Only bigger this time. A cybernetic replacement for more than just limbs, just organs. A fusing of nanotechnology and organic matter to enhance the capabilities of the human body."

"Wait, wait a second," Jesse says, his mind suddenly reeling, fitting the pieces together in the only way they make sense. "She's gonna make him--she can replace all that? His brother damn well cut him in half!"

"I know," Reyes says with grim certainty. "So we've got half a body to build to get him back." He reaches up with one hand dragging it over the line of his jaw, the coarse hair of his beard.

"It's a long shot, but not the longest one we've seen. If Dr. Ziegler does her work right, we could offer him enough enhancements to put him on par with an omnic. Though it's not the body that matters the most."

"You wanted Genji," Jesse says, more confirmation than question.

Reyes nods, sparing him a glance. "Shimada's in with Talon now," he says, confirming Jesse's suspicions. "But that doesn't mean we can't break them. We may not know how far Talon's network stretches, where their weak points are, but we've got that intel on Shimada."

"You mean Genji's got it," Jesse corrects him, his lips twisting with the thought. It coils unpleasant somewhere in his gut, too hard to burn away even with a tight drag on his cigarillo.

"You're gonna use him to take down his own damn family," he says plainly, anger rising in his voice despite his best efforts.

"I wouldn't call anyone who did something like that family," Reyes fires back with a harsh set to his jaw. "You saw him. How long would you have given him down at the bottom of that river?"

Jesse's cheeks flush with shame, his head ducking to try to avoid Reyes's scrutiny, even as he can feel the pressure of Reyes's glare bearing down against the back of his skull.

"Fuck, I dunno, boss," he says tightly. "A couple hours, tops. Ain't no one who coulda lived through something like that."

"And you think that'd be better than what we're giving him?"

"I ain't saying it's better!" Jesse shoots, louder than he meant to, but as soon as the trigger pulls he's firing wild, the angry, burning hot coals of it ripping from his throat like spitfire. "I just--fuck, I dunno? He ain't some kid, Reyes. This ain't like it was back with Deadlock. You said you'd wanted me to hunt them down but that was never it. But this--this is it, ain't it? You're gonna ask him, straight up, if he wants to go on living, he's gotta do it by cutting down people who were his family."

Reyes takes it all, his face impassive throughout the heated flood of Jesse's words. It's only at the end, when he's gasping from breath, burned down to ash that Reyes's nostrils flare with a tight breath and he answers.

"It's his choice," Reyes says, as simple and solid as that. "I gave you a choice, didn't I, Jesse?"

"You made it for me," Jesse points out, his throat raw, a sudden flush of weakness trembling all over his body. The omnic as well, he thinks, but bites the words on his tongue. "But it was different back then."

"Would it be better if I left him to die?" Reyes says, the heavy force of the words telling Jesse it's not a question. "Better if we let Talon get the upper hand? Let them use the Shimada as a foothold to wreck havoc through all of Japan?"

"No," Jesse shakes his head, teeth grit at the back of his jaw. "That ain't what I'm saying."

"Good," Reyes says, unyielding. He steps forward, one hand clasping Jesse shoulder as he leans in, voice pitched low. "Because you listen, Jesse. I'm going to pull Talon up by the roots if it's the last damn thing I do. If Genji's with me, he's with me. If he's not, then maybe we've done a good deed, saved a life. I don't care. But if you're not with me, if you're not willing to go toe to toe with these bastards, to meet them for every dirty punch they throw at us, then I'll sign your papers myself and walk you straight out that door. You got that, cowboy?"

It's not the chill of the air that sends a shiver racing up Jesse's spine this time, but the dark intensity he sees in Reyes's eyes. He's stretched paper thin, a thread pulled tight enough to snap, to fray at the edges, threatening to tear loose one strand at a time. Morrison's words echo against Jesse's skull with the thick pulse of his own heartbeat.

They're both standing at the edge of a cliff, a precipice at the edge of darkness, with no way of knowing what waits for them at the bottom without taking the leap.

An urge rises in Jesse at that moment, the truth bubbling on his lips and tongue. If Reyes knew, if Reyes only knew, he'd sign more than the papers, he'd sign Jesse's soul right back to the shitty prison cell where he should have wound up years ago. But Jesse knows that would just sink them both. If there's a way to save Reyes, to make it right, it's by staying at his side.

"I got it," he says, schooling his voice to an even tone. He shakes his head, tries to scatter the thoughts away, to leave his mind clear as the skies above. "It ain't that I don't got it," he starts, stops, teeth dragging over his lips before he starts again. "I'm with you, Reyes.  I got your back."

Reyes watches him, silent for a moment his gaze searching. In a flash of white hot panic Jesse wonders if he can see the truth, if he's known it all along, but in the end he only nods, short and sharp, squeezing tight over Jesse's shoulder before letting him go.

"I'm gonna need you, cowboy. We're gonna need all the help we can get."

"Yessir," Jesse breathes with an answering nod. His eyes stray back up across the wall of windows behind them, lingering on the halls of the medbay. What they need right now is a goddamn miracle.

\---

Their miracle is slow in the coming. Three days after Genji's arrival at headquarters, Angela has him stabilized, but heavily sedated. From what Jesse hears, he's hooked up to more tubes than should be right and there's an entire team on the med bay dedicated to making sure his condition doesn't take a turn for the worse.

There's no need for Jesse to make his rounds up there, no need to stick his nose into Angela's business, so he keeps to the lower floors of Headquarters, to the areas designated for Blackwatch use only.

Reyes doesn't want him going soft, so he tries to stay sharp. Visits to the shooting range are becoming a ritual, a chance to calm the tumult of his thoughts as he empties round after round into Torbjorn's practice drones.

"N-Ninteen out of twenty shots on target," Pallas informs him after the last blast fires from his practice rifle. "You're performing within normal--parameters, but biometric data indicates stress. Are you feeling all right, Agent Mc-McCree?"

"I'm fine," Jesse answers with a rough exhale, reaching to reload with another clip. With Winston's attention taken up almost entirely by Athena and Morrison's special research directives these days there's not much to be done for Pallas's sorry state. The AI's been left to languish, Jesse wonders if it isn't just a matter of time before they take him offline entirely.

"Your vitals are outside of normal--parameters," Pallas replies with simple clarity. "That does not qualify as 'fine.' Would you like me to inform the Commander?"

"Pallas," Jesse says, eyes narrowed as he fixes the next target in his sights. "Why don't we keep this one between you and me, all right? I'm dealing with it. No need to go bothering the Commander over nothing."

"Now what is it that you're keeping from Gabriel?"

Jesse jerks his head up, looking to see Ana stepping into the range, the door at the far end of the room sliding shut behind her.

"Agent McCree's v-vitals are outside normal parameters," Pallas informs her, indifferent to the sour look that Jesse shoots up at its sensors. "However, he has indicated it is not a matter that would warrant the Commander's attention."

"It's good of you to worry over him," Ana says lightly, nodding once to Jesse before making her way towards the locker. "But sometimes there's not much to be done for these things. Why don't you switch to observation mode for a while, Pallas?"

"Understood, Captain," Pallas says. "Blackwatch Shooting Range transitioning to observation mode."

"Much better," Ana pulls a practice rifle from the locker, turning back to Jesse with a wan smile. "I hope you don't mind a bit more human company, Jesse."

"You won't hear me complaining over the honor of your company, ma'am," Jesse says, one lip quirking up in a rough attempt at a smile. "Though you know Pallas don't mean no harm."

"I'm quite aware," Ana nods, checking the safety and clip on her rifle. "And of course, I mean no offense to you, Pallas," she says, sparing a glance upward before turning back to her work. "But I think it might be better with just the two of us for a moment."

The words give Jesse pause, his eyes watching as Ana's deft fingers work across the polished steel of her rifle, giving it a thorough check before she lifts it to rest against her shoulder. With the flurry of activity surrounding his departure for Operation Serpentine and Genji's arrival, the last time he saw her was at Gerard's funeral.

She'd had a rifle then too, sleek black against the somber color of her dress and the scarf that had covered her hair. She was the one to lead the salute in Gerard's honor, shots fired off into the spotty cloud cover that had greeted them that morning. A send off worthy of a soldier of Gerard's caliber.

Jesse swallows the thought down, tries not to let it linger. He puts a winning smile in its place, glancing up to meet Ana's eyes.

"Were you looking for me?"

Ana's sharp as always. Jesse knows she saw the pause, saw the hesitation in his reply, but he couldn't be more grateful to see her return his smile with one of her own, offering a slight nod in his direction.

"I was. Gabriel told me you might be here. He wanted me to check up on you, to make sure you weren't getting rusty."

"Now that ain't fair of him," Jesse says in mock protest. "I've been keeping up practice every single day down here. Although if it's a demonstration you're looking for, I'd be more than happy to oblige."

Ana smiles, a laugh playing at the corner of her lips. "Are you challenging me, Jesse McCree? I thought I taught you a lesson the last time you did that."

"C'mon now, Captain," Jesse wheedles, all too eagerly falling into the comfortable back and forth of their banter. "You know I'm better than I was back then. Just lemme prove it to you."

"All right, cowboy," she says, shaking her head. "Shot for shot. But don't go telling Gabriel if I wind up bruising that precious ego of yours."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he replies, grinning sharp and wild. He lifts his rifle again, his sights settling on the drone at the far end of the range. "Pallas, you wanna keep score for us?"

"Very well," the AI says, something that might be amusement coloring it tone. "Awaiting instruction."

"Count us down, Pallas," Ana says, settling into position.

"Acknowledged. Take your shots in five, four, three, two..."

Their shots ring out in near unison, double reports rebounding off the walls of the practice range as the droid before them shatters in a flurry of sparks. The echos fade to silence for a brief moment before Pallas's voice fills the void.

"Point to Captain Amari. Score stands at 1-0."

"Keep 'em coming," Jesse barks up, bringing his hand up to the butt of his rifle to steady his shot. "I ain't losing this time."

In the end, it's Jesse's loss with a score of 17-20. He's still grinning wild by the end of it, having closed the gap on Ana from the last time they went head to head.

"You've improved, cowboy," Ana says to him, a self-satisfied smile across her features. "Though it looks like you still came up short."

"Maybe this time," Jesse says with a shrug, fingers working over his gun to pull the magazine out, flicking the safety back on. "But I had you running for a while there."

"I'm not sure if I would call it running," she quips back. "But you kept pace."

He laughs, his head shaking at the backhanded compliment, searching for some quick rejoinder when he catches the weight of Ana's gaze on him, the subtle shift in her eyes to something more serious than their earlier mirth. She smiles at him, something apologetic at the edge of it, before reaching over to squeeze a hand against his shoulder.

"You're looking better now."

Jesse stalls, remembering Pallas's earlier comment, the press of worry that he'd been trying to escape when he came to the range this morning, and drops his gaze. He realizes that the game wasn't just for practice, there'd been something more in Ana's invitation.

"Just been a lot going on, you know how it is."

Ana nods with a quiet hum, her lips pursed. "It's a difficult time for all of us, after what happened to Gerard, what happened in Hanamura. I hope you'll forgive me a little sentimentality to worry over you, Jesse."

Jesse's chest squeezes, painful and tight. He tries to laugh it away, but only winds up turning aside, a shaky breath slipping from his lungs.

"I ain't done nothing to worry you, have I?" he asks, stealing a glance back at Ana before he knows it's safe, before he can hide the raw, exposed look in his eyes.

She smiles back to him softly, like a mother would.

"I think there's reason enough to worry over us all where we're at now, isn't there?"

Jesse fidgets, feels his fingers twitching over the cool metal of his rifle. The escape that their little challenge had given him is gone now. Dried up like the dead under a desert sun. Try as they might, they can't fully escape from under the threat of Talon that looms, from the threat of being backed into a corner with nowhere to run.

"Think that'd include you, wouldn't it?" he says, a halfhearted attempt to deflect the conversation away from himself.

Ana sees the attempt, sparing Jesse an amused little smile before she turns to put her rifle back in the lockery. "Are you worried about me, Jesse?"

"I'm just saying," Jesse huffs, grateful to be freed from under her scrutiny. "I ain't the one who's got a family, who's got anyone outside of this mess. Think it'd be harder on someone like you when you got Fareeha to worry about."

"It certainly isn't easy," Ana says, matter of fact. "You should hear the way Fareeha complains in her letters. She always wanted to be the one doing the protecting, not the other way around."

Jesse offers a thin smile, Fareeha's familiar presence at the base over holidays and vacations has been a lack they all feel sorely. He gets his fair share of letters as well, though he can't imagine they're anything like what Ana sees herself.

"Think she'd do a good job of it if you gave her a shot," he offers with a halfhearted shrug. "Takes after her mother, you know."

"There's some days when I wish she didn't," Ana sighs, shaking her head. "But there's not much to be done for that. It may not be what I want for her, but I won't stand between her and the life she chooses."

"Seems awful kind of you to say that," Jesse muses, finally turning from the range to store his own weapon.

His thoughts take him back to Costa Mesa, to the balcony at headquarters only a few days ago. A strange fantasy grips him and he wonders, just for a moment, if things would be different if it had been Ana across the table, if it was Ana out in the crisp spring air. He scowls at the thought, trying to catch it by its tail and push it away but it lingers. With a rough shake of his head, he returns his rifle to the locker, pressing on.

"Ain't everyone that gets a choice like that."

"That's why I want to give it to her," Ana says without hesitation, shutting the locker with a steady hand. 

Her eyes look to Jesse, taking stock of the tension in his posture, the weight of his movements. Jesse catches her look out of the corner of his eye and he knows he's exposed, spread wide like an open book under her scrutiny, but this time he doesn't hide it, merely turning back to the task at hand, waiting for the shot.

"You're worried about our newest arrival, aren't you?" she asks, dead on.

Jesse can't hide the amused little quirk of his lips. She always did get the better of him.

"I'm guessing the Commander told you what he plans to put down on the table."

"He did," Ana says, something darker threading through her eyes. "Although it wasn't just his idea. Jack was in on it too, you know."

"Morrison was?" Jesse turns, frowning as he tries to fit that piece into place with the mess that everything's becoming.

"That's right," Ana nods, her expression stern. "He's been on edge ever since what happened to Gerard. Director Petras certainly hasn't given him a moment's rest, either, so I think his competitive streak might have gotten the better of him."

"Competitive streak?" Jesse arches an eyebrow in question.

"Fighting fire with fire," Ana explains simply. "With someone like Genji on our side, we might have an advantage against the Shimada, and perhaps we could strike a blow to Talon that way."

The thought turns over in Jesse's mind, his jaw working slowly with it, the unease stirring quietly in his gut. He knows first hand that Morrison's tactics aren't wrong. A man on the inside's what got them where they are now, after all.

He shuts his locker, closing that thought away with it. "You think Genji'll take the offer up?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" Ana quips. "Gabriel gave us the debrief on Serpentine. You were the one who got the closest to him, weren't you?"

Jesse's lips twist against the flush rising to his cheek, one hand brushing across his neck to chase away a whisper of sensation from only a few weeks ago.

"I know I was working him, but that ain't what I mean," he pauses, sucks in a breath through his teeth. "I mean--if it was you, if someone who was your family did you wrong, and you had a chance to give them hell like this. To bring it all down around them for what they did to you--would you do it?"

"It's not my choice to make," Ana says. "I can't say that I don't see the appeal in revenge, but I only hope that we're making the right choice."

"We?"

"All of us," Ana says, her hands spread open before her. "Genji, Gabriel, Jack. There's more than just the outcome of Serpentine that hangs in the balance, Jesse. One wrong step and we might find ourselves facing another crisis."

"C'mon now, Captain, it ain't that bad..." Jesse starts, his words caught by the steel in Ana's gaze. She holds him, silent, her lips pursed tight, the wrinkles at the corners of her dark eyes creased deep with apprehension.

"It may not be now," she says, each word heavy and clear from her lips, "but only a fool thinks that 'never again' is something that comes easily."

Jesse's mind races for want of something to say but comes up empty. He saw the Omnic Crisis through the eyes of a civilian, not as a soldier like Ana was. After all these years, he's finally come to understand the burden borne out on the other side of things, but it remains a gap that he can't quite seem to bridge gracefully.

Thankfully, Ana doesn't ask that of him. Without waiting for a reply, she steps closer, lifting one hand to rest against his cheek in a startling gesture of intimacy. Her eyes search his, looking somehow straight to his heart but beyond him as well. She holds him still with her expression alone, speaking with calm intensity.

"Take care of yourself, Jesse," the request sounds soft on her voice. "Take care of Gabriel, and Genji as well. I think that we'll all need it before long."

Jesse nods slowly as her hand slips away, a hushed gravity carried in the gesture. "I'll do my best, m'am."

\---

At the end of his leave, Jesse finds he's still grounded.

"I need you here when Shimada's ready to go," Reyes tells him. "You and Elliot are still our best men for the operation."

Jesse takes the impromptu time off without question, not wanting to push Reyes any further on the decision. Instead, he throws himself back into the training schedule he'd made for himself on his days off. Mornings in the shooting range, afternoons down on the mats in the gym. He tries not to overdo things too much, but a bad fall in a wrestling match with Nida leaves something off in his arm and he finds himself ordered up to the med bay for Angela to take a look at it.

He goes, though he finds himself lingering outside the door at the end of the hallway marked 'Restricted,' before he takes the turn to Angela's office for his check up.

Angela seems happy enough to see him, ushering him gently to sit while she runs through her usual barrage of questions on his condition, how his connections are responding to a slew of gestures, the usual. She's got her diagnosis within minutes and launches right into work, spreading her tools out on a small tray as she detaches the nerve connections on his arm and gets to work.

Jesse watches her for a peaceful moment before the silence gnaws at him 

"Sorry to bother you with all the--" he says, gesturing widely with his good hand, sweeping it out to indicate the med bay as a whole. "With all that's going on. I bet you got better things to be doing than looking after little old me."

"Regardless of the circumstances, you are still my patient," Angela answers firmly. She spares him a glance, a feather light smile gracing her lips. "It's nice to have a simple task with an agreeable patient for once."

The implication doesn't fall on deaf ears with Jesse. He quirks one eyebrow up, casting a critical look towards the doorway. "You saying our foreign friend ain't treating you right, doc?"

"Oh, no," Angela shakes her head, reaching back to her station to swap out her tools. "Nothing of the sort. It's only, well, I imagine you know a little of how it is with those kind of procedures. It takes you a while to feel like you're quite yourself when it's all said and done."

"I reckon I got some idea of it," Jesse muses, thinking back to the days he spent in recovery after the work done on his arm, the uncomfortable haze and queasiness from the medications didn't make for good conversation at all. He glances down to where Angela's working away, over his arm, her fair hair held out of her face with a simple black band, lips pursed into a steady line as her fingers brush over this seam, that connection, carefully checking for points of wear and tear.

Though Angela's usually more put together than most--sometimes Jesse swears she ain't aged a day since he first met he--at this distance he can see the fine lines spreading from the corners of her eyes, the faint darkness growing beneath them. She moves with all the precision and grace that he's come to expect from her, but bringing a man back from the brink of death has to take a toll on even a prodigy like her.

His mind wanders back to the door at the end of the hallway, to the wet rasp of Genji's breath in his ear. A shudder races up his spine and he tries to keep still.

Angela's attention is on him in an instant, her brows furrowed in concern.

"Are you still connected? Did you feel that just now?"

"Naw, that ain't it," Jesse says, shaking his head. "Just a little chilly in here, that's all."

"I could get you a blanket if you'd like," she offers with a slight tilt of her head.

"Don't you worry none over me doc," he says with a quirk of his lips. "I'll be fine."

"If you insist," Angela says, setting back to her work.

"So...how is he?" Jesse cautions after a long moment, breaking the silence stretched between them.

"Who?" Angela turns her head up in question, realization lighting up her features a moment later. "Oh, you mean Genji." Her mouth opens, and Jesse can see the spill of words waiting on the tip of her tongue before she catching them, lips sealing with a slight frown. "I believe that's classified information at the moment. The Commander's given me rather strict orders on the subject."

"C'mon Angela," Jesse says, plying her lightly, his curiosity piqued. "You know I'm gonna see him once he's outta it. So no need to keep it all under wraps, right?"

"You won't be able to tell the particulars from just a glance," she points out assiduously. "But I suppose it wouldn't hurt to speak in general terms."

"I won't tell a soul if you don't," Jesse assures her, his good hand resting over his heart.

Angela spares him a smile at that, nodding to herself more than anything else. "I'll hold you to that. We just completed construction yesterday. He's due for another round of calibrations today, but I think that we should be able to have him doing preliminary physical exams before the end of the week."

"End of the week?" Jesse's eyebrows tick up in surprise. "That's moving pretty fast, ain't it?"

"Yes, well," Angela pauses, her expression tight, fingers stilled for a moment before she continues. "It's the Strike Commander's direct orders. We need Genji to be capable as quickly as possible so that a decision can be made on how to proceed."

"As far as whether or not he'll be joining up?"

Angela looks up to him, startled by the question before a wan smile stretches across her features. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that they've told you. Yes, both Commander Reyes and Strike Commander Morrison would like to wait on that matter. Should he agree, there are certain--enhancements that will be necessary, at Commander Reyes's request."

He can see the discomfort in her expression clear as day. Angela never was very keen on Overwatch using the best of her technology for the bad as well as the good. He glances down at his arm, split open under her attention, feeling somewhat self-conscious.

"Ain't no worse than what you did for me, is it?" he cautions, equal parts curiosity and an attempt at reassurance.

"There's a difference between replacing a limb and the sort of recovery that Genji requires," Angela tells him. "The damage to his spinal column was extensive. He had breaks in both legs and his arm in the fall, not to mention significant bruising and internal damage to his lungs and the other organs that were exposed by the blow. It's a miracle that he's able to breathe, to move anything beneath his waist."

Angela pauses, her brows drawn tight over her eyes, her jaw set as her lips fold into a thin line across her face.

"This sort of technology could save so many civilian lives, Jesse. It could offer a chance for recovery to so many who are injured in conflicts, through accidents. Yet if Genji becomes an operative of Blackwatch--"

She doesn't need to say any more. The unspoken words rest quiet and heavy over Jesse's chest. 

"You won't be able to tell no one," he finishes for her, his voice soft with the revelation.

"Unfortunately, no," she answers with a wry smile. "It's only fair in the end, I suppose. I never would have been able to see my research advanced to this state if it weren't for the funding that Overwatch provided. So it stands to reason that Overwatch would have a say in how this technology is used."

She pauses a moment, tucking a stray hair behind her ear, only to shake her head and dislodge it again. 

"There's not much to be done for it, though. The decision rests in Genji's hands."

"What about the Strike Commander?" Jesse says without thinking. "Ain't Morrison always going on about helping people, giving them a chance, doing what's best for the world and all that?"

Angela looks up to him, an unspeakable weariness hidden behind her blue eyes before she gives a short shake of her head again.

"No, I'm afraid I've already pleaded my case to the Strike Commander," she says plainly. "With what's happened to Blackwatch recently, the sort of information leaks that we've witnessed, he doesn't want to consider the possibility that someone else might be able take even a simplified version of the schematics we've created for him and weaponize them. We simply can't invite the risk."

Jesse swallows against something tight and hard lodged in his chest, turning his gaze away. Angela used to always get her way with Morrison. All she'd need to do was show him the data on how many lives they could save and Morrison'd go all starry eyed at the possibility, at the thought of the good they could do. Genji isn't going to do any good, he knows. Genji's going to be a weapon, a sword made on Reyes's command to strike down the threat of the Shimada and Talon alike.

Morrison wouldn't agree to something like that unless he knew what was at stake, unless he knew they had no other choice.

"Well," Jesse says at length, "Guess it's all up to Genji then."

"Yes," Angela says with quiet certainty. "The decision will rest on his shoulders."

\---

Jesse hears from Angela a week later, letting him know that Genji's released to see visitors now, though he's still confined to his room in the med bay. He doesn't need to be told that this means Reyes has already delivered the offer, but the fact that he doesn't hear any more from Reyes or Angela alike leaves curiosity nagging like a hot itch at the back of his mind.

If Genji's accepted, why wouldn't Reyes tell him? If he's turned them down, why wouldn't Angela say so?

The unanswered question, and the unspoken invitation in Angela's message, leave him wandering to the med bay only a day later, his feet carrying him steadily forward until he's pushing the entry pad at the side of Genji's door, watching as it swings open to the simple, sterile room beyond.

Genji rests in a narrow hospital bed, a sheet pulled up over his chest, hiding most of the cybernetics save for the flesh like casing of the replacement for his left arm and shoulder and the plating they attach to, cutting a straight line across Genji's chest. There's some sort of device hooked to his throat as well, just below his chin, that connects to a clear mask strapped tight over his nose and mouth.

He doesn't look like he's doing all that bad, Jesse thinks, slipping into the room as silently as he can. His shoes scuff quietly against the pristine floors as the door slides shut with a hiss behind him. He feels Genji's eyes on him faster than he can look up, finding himself pinned in that penetrating deep brown gaze.

They hold him for a moment, a tense silence pulled to a breaking point before Jesse cracks a lopsided grin, waving his good hand in Genji's direction.

"Hey there."

Genji watches him, his eyes impassive above the mask before he gives a short, derisive snort.

"The cowboy," he says, his voice cracked and mechanical, a metallic echo of the sound that Jesse remembers. "I should have known you were with them."

"Really now?" Jesse asks, making his way over to the chair at the side of Genji's bedside. "What tipped you off?"

"Foreign boys don't dance like that then go home lonely at the end of the night," Genji shoots at him without heat behind the barb. He turns to rest back into the pillows piled up on his bed, eyes slipping closed. "You were too much of a tease."

"You telling me if I put out it'd make me less suspicious?"

"Of course," Genji says flatly. "Why else would you dance like that?"

"Well, I'll keep that one in mind," Jesse says, momentarily grateful that Genji can't see the flush rising against his cheekbones.

"What do you want?" Genji asks him, the flat question breaking the short silence.

"Beg pardon?" Jesse asks, finding his feet again.

"Your Commander has spoken to me, he gave me his stupid ultimatum. Did he send you here to have me make up my mind?"

"No, naw, it ain't nothing like that," Jesse protests, rubbing a rough hand across the back of his neck.

"You are a terrible liar," Genji says, turning to deliver a sharp glare from his weary eyes. "Why else would you be here?"

Jesse finds himself stunned, his tongue suddenly too thick in his throat, his words a jumble. He grits his teeth, pushing them back together as he levels an even look back at Genji. 

"Look, don't know if you remember it well, but I was the one who pulled you out back there," he says, "Can't a man be worried about someone he saw sitting at death's door?"

"Do you intend to comfort me?" Genji scoffs.

"So what if I do?" Jesse fires right back. "Seems to me like a man who's almost died might want a little comfort."

"Hah," Genji breathes a laugh, a single, harsh exhale. 

"If you wish to comfort me, you should make me bunny rabbits," he says, faintly echoing the imperious tone that Jesse remembers hearing from his brother.

"Bunny rabbits?" Jesse asks, caught off-guard again and completely at a loss.

"Yes. You cut an apple into the shape of a bunny," Genji explains like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"How exactly am I supposed to do that?" Jesse scowls.

"Figure it out, cowboy," Genji says, his words as sharp as the edge of any knife. "Then maybe I will talk to you."

\---

Genji's request sticks to Jesse like a challenge. While it's true that Genji saw through the lie, Jesse desperately wants to know which way Genji was leaning regarding the offer that Reyes made to him, he isn't going to go about it without a little bit of decency. Genji deserves to be treated like a person, like a victim, not like a weapon or a single long shot chance at saving the crumbling foundation of Blackwatch and Overwatch alike.

It's that conviction that has Jesse scrambling back and forth across Headquarters for the rest of the day. First to Angela to make sure that he can even eat food like normal with the weird contraption hooked to his throat, then to his room for a quick search on the terminal assisted by Pallas's occasional quips, before finally rushing to mess hall to rummage through the pantry before he finds his prize.

He's back at the med bay before visiting hours close, tapping the entry door with his free hand, satisfied when it hisses open revealing the empty room again. Genji is waiting, watching as Jesse saunters in, summoning a little of his usual confidence and swagger.

"Howdy," he says, tossing a bright red apple into the air before catching it with his good hand.

Genji merely looks at him, an eyebrow lifted in question before Jesse flashes a winning grin, striding purposefully over to drop himself into the chair at Genji's bedside.

"I figured out your bunny rabbits," Jesse explains, pulling a knife from his pocket and setting to work, slicing easily into the taut, shiny skin of the apple in his hand. "Even checked with the good doc to make sure you're cleared to eat 'em."

Genji only watches, silent, his eyes fixed on Jesse's hands and fingers as he divides the apples into slices before working the skin off at the edges, notching each one into a crude, but passable, impression of a rabbit's ears.

He holds up the first one for Genji to inspect, a lopsided grin wide over his face.

"What d'you say? Good, ain't it?"

Genji snatches at the apple with the fingers of his prosthetic hand, but they catch with the gesture, dropping it down onto his bedsheets. With an angry hiss Genji snatches it up in his good hand, his glare holding Jesse silent before he turns back to inspect the cowboy's handiwork.

"I'm impressed," he says at length. "You figured it out quickly."

"Yeah, well, they ain't too hard are they?" Jesse smirks, setting back to work his way through the rest of the apple.

"Perhaps not," Genji grunts. He shoots a glare down to his prosthetic hand before lifting it up to pull the mask from his face so he can pop the apple between his lips, teeth sinking into it with a satisfying crunch.

When Genji doesn't offer any thing more in the way of conversation, Jesse presses on instead, keeping his gaze fixed on the pieces of apple in his hand.

"Look, I wanna be honest with you about what you said earlier," he starts, watching the flash of the knife cut through red skin and pale flesh. "I ain't here to help you make up your mind, it ain't like that, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't part of the reason why I wanted to see you."

"How virtuous," Genji scoffs, he holds his prosthetic hand out in a silent demand. "Do you expect me to answer you honestly in return?"

Obliging, Jesse deposits another bunny apple in the center of his open palm. "I'd appreciate it if you would," he says. "But I know you don't owe that to me."

"A smart call," Genji says with a snort, lifting his mask to bite into the apple again. "Maybe you should teach your Commander a thing or two about compromise."

"Believe you me, I'd say something if I didn't think it'd end with my head on a--uh--" Jesse's grin falters a moment, deflating under the sharp edge of Genji's unyielding stare. Jesse ducks a moment later, fingers fidgeting against the skin of the apple in his hands. "Sorry, guess that hits kinda close to home for you, don't it?"

"Oh please, go on," Genji says, his voice thick with barely contained spite. "Your Commander certainly seems like the sort of man who would kill his own. I would know, wouldn't I?"

"Look, that's why I was saying--" Jesse starts, lifting one hand up in surrender.

"You think you can compensate with a simple apology?" Genji cuts against his words, his prosthetic fist clenching and unclenching against the pristine white of his bedsheets, anger flaring in the tight line of his shoulders, the crease of his brow. "Or an offer for revenge that is not on my terms? Tell me, do you think a body like this should count as a gift when I didn't even ask for it? When I had no say in the matter?"

Jesse finds himself caught in the eye of the storm that is Genji's rage, hot waves beating against his chest, burning the air in his lungs and searing his tongue to ash. He grits against it, back tensed as he meets the onslaught head on.

"Listen now, I know they weren't exactly keen on waiting for you to come to before they went with all, this but that don't mean you ain't got a choice in it--

"What choice?" Genji bites, teeth snapping beneath the mask. "Your Commander seems to think it is an obligation. He said I should be grateful. As if I owe Overwatch anything for something they did to me against my wishes!"

Witnessing the heat of Genji's temper first-hand, Jesse can only imagine how the encounter with Reyes must have gone. His thoughts helpfully provide him with a memory years old, of hoarse and angry shouts echoing off the walls of Watchpoint Costa Mesa. He swallows it down, feels his hands trembling with a wash of nostalgia and rage twisted into one.

Suddenly he's the one across the table, staring down his own shadow, but even the promise of what was offered to him back then feels stale in his mouth now. But he knows, if there's any chance to make it good, any chance to make it right, it's coming now.

"Well what do you want?" Jesse asks, his gaze locked steady on Genji.

"What do I want?" Genji parrots the question back, incredulous, his palms pressed flat against the bed as if he would bolt from the room if given half a chance.

"That's what I said," Jesse nods, a slight jerk of his chin. "If it was up to you, sitting down at the bottom of that river, knowing we could come in a sweep you out, fix you up and give you a chance at a new life if you wanted it, or give you a chance to get back at them that did this to you. What would you do?"

The words bring Genji to silence. Beneath furrowed brows his eyes flick across Jesse's face, watching for tells, assessing whether or not his intent is sincere. Jesse meets the scrutiny openly. He doesn't flinch, doesn't recoil, keeping his focus clear.

Genji raises his chin a fraction of an inch, an acknowledgement, some subtle show of appreciation, maybe. His lips draw into a line as sharp as the blade of a knife, narrow and keen enough to cut to bone.

"I did not want to die," he says, wincing with anger at the way fear creeps into the words. His hands twist in the sheets, the knuckles on his good hand showing white. "Who the hell would want to die in a shit hole like that? Cut down by my own brother--" he spits, reclaiming some of his earlier rage, letting it cloak the rest. "I want to make him pay. He should pay for what he has done, they all should--Hanzo, the elders, that stupid omnic--"

Jesse's chest tightens, a twin flare of anger rising hot in his throat.

"You want to make them pay on your own?" he asks, voice dropping lower, dangerous. "Beg pardon but it don't seem fair to pit one man against a whole host of bad guys."

"You do not know what sort of man I am, cowboy," Genji says, familiar confidence dripping from the words. "When I first saw you, if I thought you were a threat, there are countless ways I could have killed you before your body hit the floor."

"Well, I appreciate that you didn't," Jesse huffs, pleased to see the change in Genji's demeanor.

Genji gives a halfhearted shrug, his eyes narrowing with a critical glare, "Perhaps I might have if I didn't know you wouldn't put out."

"Whoa now," Jesse says, half laughing at the retort, "You'd kill a man for not sucking your dick?"

"I'd kill someone for lying to me, for double crossing me," Genji says, the steely edge returning to his voice.

"Lucky for you I don't plan on doing either of those," Jesse answers. He finds a thin smile now that some of the tension's slipped from the room, his posture shifting forward as he leans to rest his hands on his knees, fractionally closing the distance between Genji and himself. His heart's racing in his chest, something like hope flaring hot and tight around it. 

"Point still stands, though," Jesse says, watching Genji evenly. "I know it ain't on your terms, you might not've asked for it. And sure, Commander Reyes ain't got a way with words, but he'll keep his if you keep yours. That's what's on the table, Genji. You wanna make them pay, I promise you we'll be right there raising hell with you. What d'you say?"

Genji watches him with eyes like a bird of prey, piercing straight through his chest to bare his soul open. Jesse tries not to hold his breath, but he can't help it. There's a chance, maybe. A chance that Genji will understand, a chance that maybe, just maybe, they can turn the screws on Talon before it's too late.

The moment feels like an eternity, like a lifetime lost in the calculating depths of Genji's eyes, before Genji closes them, turning away to look up at the medbay ceiling overhead. He lifts his prosthetic hand, raising it over his head to watch the way the artificial fingers and joints move at his beck and call, catching every so often, but still a reasonable imitation of what was lost.

"Your doctor said she'll make me into a weapon," he says, voice pitched low.

"Something like that," Jesse says, just as hushed. "The specs for civilian and military prosthetics wind up being a little bit different, if you know what I mean."

"I know, but it sounds better the way she says it," Genji says. He breathes out, a slow, distorted sound through the mechanism at his neck.

"Tell your Commander I will be his weapon. On one condition."

"What's that?"

Genji clenches his hand into a fist above his head. "The final blow against Hanzo is mine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Apple bunnies](http://justbento.com/handbook/bento-decoration-techniques/apple-bunnies-and-more-decorative-apple-cutting-techniques)
> 
> Look there's finally a Genji!! Talking to McCree even!
> 
> As always, feel free to leave comments if there's any parts you liked! Or any sort of speculation and what you're looking forward to. I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> You can also hit me up at at [my tumblr](http://shibaface.tumblr.com) or subscribe to the fic/my AO3 if you like my work!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse accompanies Genji as he begins to take revenge on his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Zazzle](http://allegoriest.tumblr.com) for editing this chapter for me!

The third time Jesse's back hits the mat he's sure that it's going to leave a bruise. 

Genji's on him a moment later, practice blade poised motionless over his throat, the smooth bamboo edge just barely kissing his skin. Jesse looks up to find Genji's eyes flash with anger, dark and distant, before his focus draws back to where Jesse's splayed out beneath him. 

Just as quickly as the tumult began, just as quickly as Genji had laid Jesse flat out on the practice mats, it's gone. Genji pushes off with a rough exhale, swinging the sword out to his side.

"I thought you said you wanted to challenge me," he says, his tone a careful neutral as he extends a hand out to help Jesse up. "That's three in a row for me."

"Yeah, well, ain't never gone toe-to-toe with a cyborg before," Jesse quips back, gratefully taking the hand up, his good arm clasped against the sleek metal casing of Genji's new limb.

The arm isn't the only thing that's new. Once Genji joined Blackwatch, agreed to aid in the fight against Talon and the Shimada clan, every piece of his new body was summarily replaced with something better, stronger, more fitting for a soldier than a civilian.

It's not a bad look, Jesse thinks. A smooth black mask covers the lower half of Genji's face--a filtration system to compensate for the damage done to his lungs--along with cords of nanite muscle and sinew running along his legs and right arm. 

Though the aesthetics aren't even the half of it. Jesse might not have had the chance to throw down with Genji on a practice mat in any of their previous encounters, but  given how up close and personal they'd gotten in the club, he got a good feel for Genji's build, his muscle mass, about how strong he'd be in the fight.

The body Genji has now eclipses that by leaps and bounds. 

They've been down in the practice gym for several hours, with Jesse, Elliot and Nida taking turns facing off against Genji to test the capabilities of his body. Unfortunately, it's been a pretty dismal showing on the part of Blackwatch's finest.

"Are you fucking kidding me, cowboy," Elliot groans from the sidelines, face buried in his hands as he presses a biotic compress against the side of his head. "That was the shittiest showing I've ever seen from you!"

"I didn't see you doing any better," Nida says with a shake of her head. "Or have you forgotten how you got that shiner already?"

"Oh, piss off, Demir," Elliot grouses. "Just because you're the only one who got a hit off. I bet he was going easy on you since you're a woman."

"I hope for his sake that he wasn't," Nida replies, looking over to Genji with a sharp grin. "You wouldn't do that to me, would you, Shimada?"

"My instructor was a woman," Genji says with a simple shrug of his shoulder. "If you ask me for my best, I'll show it to you."

"There, you see?" Nida says, glancing back to Elliot. "I got him fair and square."

Elliot gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes before pressing his face back into the bio-pack. "Show offs, the damn lot of you."

"C'mon now, Elliot, you don't see me pissing in Nida's cereal just because I lost," Jesse says, delivering a solid slap to Elliot's shoulder that's quickly shoved away.

"Shove it, cowboy," Elliot groans. "That's still sore."

"You ain't the only one," Jesse says, glancing back at where Genji's starting to move through his practice motions again, restless energy practically radiating from him. "Looks like the good doc just about outdid herself with Genji here."

"She did what was asked of her," Genji interjects, casting a look over in their direction. "It was Commander Reyes who gave the specifications."

"The Commander's no stranger to knowing how to get what he wants," Nida says with a slight nod. "Though he did ask us to keep track of how you're feeling. There's nothing out of place, is there?"

Genji gaze catches on Nida, a stutter of silence punctuating  the space before he speaks. "No," he says, his voice even, "It is as it should be, for this body."

If Nida noticed the hesitation, she says nothing, offering Genji a wide grin before stepping back out onto the mat. "Well, good to hear it," she says, rolling her shoulders, holding both hands out in front of her in a loose defensive pose. "Are you up for another round? Hand to hand this time, no weapons."

Jesse can't rightly tell if Genji's happy for the offer or not. With the mask obscuring his mouth, Genji's emotions only show in his eyes, his posture, the tone of his voice. Yet he's quick to toss the practice sword aside, falling back onto the balls of his feet, cords of artificial muscle flexing as he settles into a fighting stance. His eyes flash, sharp and bright, over the top of the mask, as they pan quickly over Nida's body, taking in every shift, every tic, anything that might betray a weakness.

"Bring it on," Genji says, curling the fingers of his outstretched hand to beckon Nida in.

Nida lasts longer than Jesse did, all precision footwork, calculated strikes, and--once or twice-- using the weight and momentum of Genji's enhanced body against him as she ducks and hurls him across the mat. 

But it's Genji who wins in the end, his right arm gripping tightly against Nida's in one particularly tense grapple before he hooks one foot behind hers in a fluid twist that leaves Nida face down on the mat with her arm twisted against her back and Genji's knee pressed just below the nape of her neck.

"It's my win," Genji says before releasing her. "Fair and square."

Nida lets out a breathless laugh, rolling on the mat so she can take the hand Genji's extended to her and help herself up.

"Fair and square. You're getting better with it," she says, nodding to him. "Seems like it's starting to feel more fluid."

"Perhaps," Genji shrugs, indifferent. "I am much stronger now than I was before. More deadly."

"Strength doesn't matter if it breaks down on you in the middle of a fight," a voice calls out from the doorway.

All four turn to watch as Reyes strides across the floor to the mats, tightening the straps on his padding as he goes. He casts a glance to Elliot and Jesse as he passes, taking on their current state of injury with a critical gaze. 

Jesse looks away, a little flustered that he didn't even notice Reyes's entry. He'd been so caught up in the movement of Genji's body on the mat, of his fight with Nida, that he hadn't been paying attention. 

Reyes either doesn't notice or he chooses to let it slide. Jesse can't tell which. Either way, his focus is back on Genji in an instant, a shadow of a grin hiding beneath his moustache.

"The training's going well then," he says to Genji, arms crossed cleanly over his chest, his legs braced wide on the edge of the mat.

Genji watches him warily, the forward, confident tilt of his stance shifting into something more defensive, uncertain. When he doesn't speak, it's Nida who steps to answer for him, clapping a hand against Genji's shoulder.

"We've had a good time of it," she says. "One-on-one CQC sparring, like you asked. Though Shimada here's been getting the better of us for the most part."

"Is that so?" Reyes asks, one eyebrow quirked as he looks to Genji, still waiting on an answer.

Genji watches him a moment longer before his head bobs with a short, perfunctory nod. "Yes sir," he says. "Captain Demir has fared the best, but the rest have not been much of a challenge."

"You looking for a challenge?" Reyes says. The shift in his posture is subtle, a tension through his shoulders, a lift to his heels. Jesse sees it, and, judging by the echoing change in Genji's stance, he's not the only one.

"It is hard to know my limits without one," Genji quips back before adding, as an afterthought, "Commander."

"Good answer," Reyes says, a sharp, predatory edge at the corner of his lips. "Demir, clear the mat."

"Don't need to ask me twice," Nida says, hastily making her way off to join Elliot and Jesse on the sidelines.

Reyes steps forward. The clear sound of his feet against the mat echo with the power and threat of his body. Though Jesse's gotten used to Reyes over the years, gotten used to the sheer size of him, the intimidating aura of his presence, it's moments like these that make it impossible to forget that the man's a product of SEP, a soldier built for combat, picked from the best and brightest that the US military had to offer.

It's that unseen threat hanging in the air, the invisible pressure of all the strength contained in a single man that seems to sharpen the edge of Genji's gaze, leaving his eyes following every twitch and tic of Reyes's body with the sharp precision of a hawk. 

"Now listen, Shimada," Reyes says in a tone that demands respect. "The first punch you pull, I'm teaching you that even a body like the one the good doc's made for you can still feel pain."

"Then I hope you will forgive me if I disgrace you in front of your finest men and women," Genji says, his body steady as a blade, poised to strike.

Reyes barks out a laugh, his lips split wide in an eager grin. "You better live up to a boast like that."

Genji's eyes narrow, turned up at the edges just enough that Jesse would swear he's smiling beneath the mask.

"Come on, Commander."

Reyes is on him in the blink of an eye. Jesse's had plenty of chances to witness Reyes in combat, both on the mat and in the field, but there's a damn good reason why Blackwatch's Commander rarely throws down with his own men and women. 

There's no point in calling it practice when the match's completely one sided.

This, however, is anything but that. Where Reyes lunges, Genji dodges, where he strikes, Genji's there to block, to counterattack, meeting Reyes blow for blow. A sheen of sweat stands out against Reyes's dark skin within minutes, his muscles straining, feet sliding against the mat. The tense air is split only by the sounds of his fists colliding with Genji's metal plating, with Reyes's grunts, his labored breaths.

"Holy shit," Elliot breaks the silence with an awed whisper. "He's giving the fucking Commander a run for his money."

"Yeah," Nida replies, her eyes wide as she takes in the spectacle before her. "Looks like it."

Jesse swallows hard, his eyes locked on their struggle as well. He's never, not in all his time with Blackwatch and the dozens of missions they've gone on together, seen anyone other than Morrison get the better of Reyes. The contrast between this and Genji's earlier fights is clear as night and day. Genji had been toying with them before, stretching his wings. Nida's victory was an outlier, a fluke. The rest of them were nothing more than a warm up, a chance to loosen up. 

None of them were anywhere near pushing him up to his limits, but Reyes is.

Yet just as quickly as the thought crosses his mind, just as soon as Jesse thinks maybe even Reyes can't stand against the weapon he's forged with Genji's body and Angela's technology, the tide abruptly turns. It's almost too fast for Jesse to track, but a quick series of feints and strikes from Reyes sees Genji off-balance, Reyes's hand tight on his wrist as he pivots and hurls Genji down onto the mat.

Genji collides with the ground like a sack of bricks, the room shaking with the impact, his breath heaving through the filter of his mask. Jesse watches in awestruck silence before Reyes steps forward, crouching down to help Genji up.

"Nothing broken?" he asks, eyes narrowed as he gives Genji a cursory glance.

"No," Genji answers. He looks to Reyes as he pushes himself up, wasting no time in settling back into a fighting stance. "Again."

"Good answer," Reyes says with a brutal grin, his body already tensed and ready for the fight.

They go three rounds total, each one stretching longer than the last. By the third, Jesse can tell that Genji's gotten wise to Reyes's tricks. Genji's sharp brown eyes see through Reye's strategy, but still fall one step behind. Reyes compensates for Genji's advantage in sheer strength with decades of combat experience, with the unyielding, merciless tactical advantage that's led Blackwatch to where they are now.

Genji finishes face up on the mat again in the end. Reyes is standing over him, swinging his arms loosely to work out the sore spots.

"You've got a good eye, Shimada," Reyes says before crouching down, offering Genji a hand up. "You move fast, think fast, but you get cocky. You get angry when you're cocky, and anyone who sees that's going to push it to their advantage."

Genji shifts just enough to get a good look at Reyes, before he lets his head fall back against the mat with an audible thump. "With all due respect, Commander, I do not think there are many men who could push that advantage now."

Reyes snorts, shaking his head in amusement. "Well, you got a point there. Just don't go getting soft on me." He slaps a hand to Genji's shoulder when it seems clear that Genji doesn't intend to move. Reyes pats once before pushing back up to his feet.

"I want you to report to medbay after this. Have Dr. Ziegler take a look at the connections." Reyes's gaze sweeps out across the training hall, zeroing in on Jesse in an instant. "McCree, you make sure he gets there. For the rest of you, schedule's back to normal."

"Yes sir," Jesse answers in chorus with Nida and Elliot. 

He can't explain it, but there's a little thrill in his chest at seeing the way their response brings a sideways quirk to Reyes's lips, a ghost of a smile. It's been a long time since he's seen the weight of tension gone from Reyes's shoulders like this, been a long time since his commands weren't barked with a life or death urgency. The shift is subtle enough, but Jesse sees it clear as day.

"Go on now then, get moving," Reyes says with a wave of his hand, stepping off the mat as he works the straps off his practice pads.

"Have fun babysitting the ninja," Elliot jabs at Jesse's side, rising to leave.

"I can hear you," Genji calls out from the mat before Jesse has a chance to reply. The matter-of-fact tone of voice nearly sounds like a threat.

"Learn to take a fucking joke, Shimada," Elliot retorts, tossing his used biotic pack in the trash and moving to leave.

"Think he's saying you need better ones," Jesse quips, but he cracks a grin when Elliot's only reply is to flip him the bird over his shoulder.

Genji's still laid out flat when Jesse approaches, his eyes closed, chest heaving slowly.

"You all right there, partner?" Jesse asks, crouching down over him.

"I am fine," Genji says. He opens his eyes, deep brown staring up into Jesse's face, studying him. Jesse lifts an eyebrow, curious at the sudden scrutiny.

"Your commander," Genji says at last, "He is a ruthless man."

"Sure is," Jesse agrees, a hint of a grin flashing on his face. He reaches out to Genji, offering him a hand up. "But you know, starting now, he's your commander too."

Genji's eyes look to the hand, to Jesse's face, his expression inscrutable beneath the mask. A moment later he reaches up to clasp his good hand against Jesse's metal arm.

"I suppose he is."

\---

Genji helps them build a list, a neat row of names, clean lines connecting them all as they flow slowly upward to the the single black thread that leads to Hanzo Shimada.

"This is the one who introduced us to the omnic," he says, pointing at a square jawed man with a thick brow and eyes set too close together. "And this is the one who always told my father he was not ambitious enough," he says of another, a woman with thin, severe lips and delicately painted eyebrows.

Reyes takes it all in stride, probing with questions here and there, until they've exhausted all the information that Genji has to offer. It's at one of their final briefing sessions that he looks from the list spread before them back up to Genji, his jaw set, eyes shadowed by the crease of his brows drawn together.

"Where would you strike first?" he asks.

Jesse can see the thrill in Genji's eyes, the anticipation sparking under his skin, in the subtle twitch of his fingers at his side. Genji looks down to the list, the pictures. Names and faces of men and women who he's known since birth, each one of them pivotal in building the empire that raised him, in setting his brother on the path to strike him down. 

He lifts his hand, drawing his finger down on a man off to the edge, only two rows away from Hanzo himself. A fella called Takuma Ueno.

"I would start here."

Two weeks later, Jesse watches from the shadows as Genji's blade splits Mr. Ueno open from shoulder to navel, spilling his guts out on the wet stones of his very own private garden. The spray of coppery blood catches Genji in its wake, painting him in lurid red. The color shines in the light of the moon and halogens overhead.

Jesse's captivated by the sight, caught by the gruesome beauty of the moment before the sound of the guards in the estate around them snaps him back to reality. He dashes out, catching Genji's attention, gesturing quickly for the two of them to take their leave of the dearly departed Mr. Ueno.

They make their escape over rooftops, ducking out of view of people on the streets below before slipping into the open balcony of the safehouse they've secured in Hanamura, a one bedroom place in some decrepit condo building in the less-than-savory part of town.

Jesse runs their perimeter sweep, drawing the curtains closed and flicking the lights on only once he's sure they're safe.

"Looks like the coast's clear," he says, turning back to where Genji stands in the middle of the room, dripping blood onto the scuffed and scratched hardwood floors beneath. Genji looks to Jesse in a daze, his eyes wide, his hard, heaving breaths distorted through the mask.

"It's done," Genji says heavily, dropping his sword at his side. He reaches up, fingers fumbling as he finds the catches for his mask, releasing it with a soft hiss of air to reveal the scarred flesh of his face beneath, his lips pulled back in a wild, uneven grin.

"Sure is," Jesse replies, a grin of his own spreading over his face. He steps closer, watching as Genji stares down to the blood still coating his hands and body, some uncertain tension sparking in the air between them.

"I killed that old bastard," Genji says in choked, awestruck wonder. He looks back to Jesse, reaching out to haul him in with both fists closed on the straps of his tactical vest. "I did it. He's dead! I did it!"

Jesse only stumbles by a pace, his hands reaching up to catch at Genji's wrists. Blood smears across his vest from Genji's hands, but Jesse doesn't really give a damn right now. The heady elation of Genji's grin is infectious. Even if it's steeped in danger and bloodlust, it's been a damn long time since Jesse's had the thrill of a mission gone right.

Without even thinking, he tips forward, crushing his lips hard over the sharp edges of Genji's smile, inhaling the tang of copper and sweat and the metallic steam that radiates from Genji's cybernetics.

There's only a beat of hesitation, half a breath, before Genji's teeth are set sharp against his lips, his tongue plunging in greedily against the waiting heat of Jesse's mouth. Genji pulls against him and he's got no choice but to follow, swung effortlessly about until his back slams hard against the wall of the entryway, Genji crowding him hard up against it with the heat of his metal knee shoved between Jesse's legs.

"You owe me, cowboy," he hisses out over Jesse's lips. His voice is cracked and rough without the protection of his mask. "For the club. For not telling me who you were."

"I'm a man who pays his debts," Jesse says, all cheeky confidence as he lets himself rub forward into the pressure of Genji's thigh, a spark of heat already racing quickly up his spine, straight to his head. "If you're coming to collect."

Genji's only response is a growl, his metal hand curling hard around the nape of Jesse's neck, hauling him into another tight, bruising kiss. 

In the flurry of tongues and teeth, Genji's got Jesse's fly open before Jesse can even start to make sense of the seams and creases of Genji's armor, of where his cybernetic flesh begins and the protective plating begins. When calloused fingers curl tight around him, Jesse can't bring himself to think of anything more than chasing Genji's reckless tempo. He clutches his good arm around the narrow span of Genji's shoulders, crushing them both tight together his breath going ragged and hot against the hollow of Genji's throat, a pleading, aching moan reverberating into his pulse as Genji pushes him ruthlessly over the edge.

Jesse catches himself a moment later, leaning back against the wall, his hands pawing slowly over the planes of Genji's back, over the hard curve of his ass. When Genji steps back, it drags a plaintive whine from Jesse's throat.

"What about you?" Jesse asks with a swallow, his voice still thick.

Genji doesn't answer, shoulders heaving with tight, heavy frustration. His face is flushed red, lips twisted in a scowl though his mouth hangs open, drawing in heavy breaths.

Jesse's eyes draw down over the smear of white dotting across the deep red of drying blood on Genji's stomach. His pulse is still racing in his chest, the taste of Genji's skin still thick on his tongue. There's a desperate, dizzy need rushing through him. It sears through his chest, hot with hope, stoked to life by the sight of Genji before him.

Jesse reaches out to touch and Genji steps back with a hiss, teeth set on edge.

"Don't--" he bites out, then stops.

"Some of this is armor, ain't it?" Jesse asks, looking up just in time to catch the quick, sharp nod of Genji's chin. Jesse purrs low, trying to capture some of the heat Genji'd left lingering inside him. "So let's get that armor off."

Genji watches him, a shiver racing up his arms, across his shoulders and chest--something so subtle that Jesse never would have caught had he not been so close. He holds his breath tight, waiting, before Genji lifts his hands, his fingertips quickly moving to the catches in the armor covering his body.

It drops away in pieces, clattering against the floor around them. Genji's synthetic skin and exposed muscle is smooth underneath, largely untouched by the mess and gore of his earlier encounter. Genji discards of each piece methodically, until he's standing as bare as he can be before Jesse's eyes. 

Jesse's gaze sweeps up from the discarded pieces of armor on the floor, over the artificial curve of Genji's thighs to the strange jut of his cock. It's an unnatural shaft, cloaked in silicone without any apparent attempt made to have it look anything but inhuman, any more like it belongs. Jesse only lings on it a moment before he lifts his gaze to meet the furrowed line of Genji's brows, the dark, challenging look in his brown eyes.

"Well?" Genji's lips curve sharply around the words. "Do you like what you see?"

Jesse's held silent in the fury behind Genji's words, pinning him down harder than the grip Genji had on his body only moments ago. He catches his lip in his teeth, biting down hard, mind racing in search of an answer. It only makes sense that Genji's body would be like this. Angela had built it at breakneck speed, Reyes's deadlines and specifications looming over her. There wouldn't have been time for anything unnecessary, no time to make Genji truly human.

But there's still the heady remnants of Genji's hands on him racing through Jesse's blood, the feeling of Genji's body pressed hard against his. That had to count for something, didn't it? He swallows, stepping in, reaching out once more. This time, Genji doesn't recoil. His gaze holds steady on Jesse's face, flicking down to the heavy bob of his throat as Jesse's fingers slide across muscle fiber, coolant tubes, the metallic joints and catches that make up Genji's thighs now.

"Think you look just fine, darling," Jesse offers with a sly grin, watching the way Genji's nostrils flare as Jesse presses in, curling the rough callouses of his good hand around the girth of Genji's dick.

Genji slaps his hands away in an instant, red rising high on his cheeks, his teeth clenched tight under his jaw.

"Don't touch," he hisses. 

Jesse snatches his hands back in an instant, holding both palms up in surrender. Genji's eyes flick down and up again, taking in his exposed state, Jesse's pants and briefs worked halfway down around his thighs. He breathes out a stuttered exhale, something halfway between a sigh and a snarl.

"If you want to repay me," Genji says at length, his chin lifted high and defiant, "then help clean up the mess you've made." He jerks his head towards the bathroom with a sharp gesture. "The Commander and Dr. Ziegler won't be pleased if I don't take proper care of it."

The words hit hard against Jesse's chest, a cold, impartial fist snuffing the last vestiges of heat he'd been so desperate to hold onto. Jesse can't make a mess out of this, not out of Genji, not out of the Shimada Operation. He lowers his hands, letting a slow roll of his shoulders set his expression back to something easy, something nonchalant.

"Need me to scrub your back then?" he offers.

"Only if you're quick about it," Genji says with a snort, turning to stalk towards the bathroom.

\---

Five more names are gone from the list by the time Reyes calls them back to Headquarters for a check-in. Angela needs to run some schematic checks on Genji's body, and Jesse and Genji both need a resupply and to give Reyes an update on the situation through a more secure channel.

Reyes pulls Jesse down to the briefing room while Genji's off with the good doc. Jesse's expecting a sitrep, a barrage of questions on the ins and outs of the picks they've been making against the Shimada clan, but instead he finds Reyes sitting across the empty table from him, a calculating glower written across his face.

"What's the deal with you and Shimada, cowboy?" he asks, the question falling just shy of a flat out demand.

"Which one of them--?" Jesse asks before the incredulous look in Reyes's eyes give him all the clarification he needs. "What, you mean me and Genji?"

"That's what I asked," Reyes says flatly, his gaze still held level on Jesse. "You know we've got policies on that sort of shit."

"How did you--" Jesse starts, his words leaving him as a flush rises to his cheeks despite his best efforts. 

"You think I wasn't listening when you two started to go at it right after your first mission?" Reyes asks, one eyebrow quirked in question.

"I turned that off!" Jesse protests instantly, an uncomfortable feeling creeping up his neck and across his shoulders as his mind races back to their first night together and each night after that. He'd been sure he'd shut things down, gone dark just before each encounter, but there's no way to deny it to Reyes now. He swallows, pinned under Reyes's scrutiny as he blusters in an attempt to save face.

"It ain't really..." Jesse attempts, unsure of what words should follow. Jesse's pretty sure Genji sees him as a way to blow off steam more often than not, a way to vent his frustration, to hold onto some part of what he was, but that doesn't mean they've taken the time to pin it down and put a name to it, much less think about reporting it up to Reyes and the like.

Reyes remains silent, his impassive expression a clear a sign as any that he's not buying Jesse's bullshit. Jesse scowls beneath it, waving his hand at Reyes with an rough gesture.

"Look, the fella's got a lot he's going through. Just figured it might help him out, what with how his body is and all. It ain't no problem though, right? I mean you got Morrison--"

"This isn't about me and the Strike Commander," Reyes cuts him off, the clench in his jaw and tight pulse of his hands against his biceps telling Jesse that it is  _ exactly _ what it's about.

Jesse bites his tongue, unease gnawing up his spine, curling his gut.

"Didn't mean no disrespect, sir," he says, trying to soften his tone into something more placating. "Just letting you know it won't cause no trouble, that's all. It ain't nothing, not really."

Reyes watches him silently for a moment, something darker, hollow, stealing across his eyes before he shakes his head in a sharp gesture, pushing up off his chair to stalk towards the filing cabinets.

"Make sure that it doesn't," he says, tossing down the folder for the Shimada operation in front of Jesse. "Now, tell me what else you boys have been up to."

\---

What's supposed to be a quick in-and-out winds up turning into a layover of at least a week once Angela finishes her diagnostics on the state of Genji's cybernetics.

"The new equipment needs recalibration," Genji explains when Jesse stops by for a visit. "But it should feel more natural, so she says."

"Well I'd trust the good doc on that," Jesse says in an attempt to be reassuring, patting Genji on his good shoulder. "She's the best there is, you know."

Genji snorts, clearly unimpressed. "The Commander still wants us back in Japan next week. We'll see how well she works miracles on a deadline."

Jesse tries to wheedle a little more optimism out of him, but Genji's having none of it. Eventually Jesse beats a retreat from the medbay, wandering through the hallways of Headquarters, trying to decide between a trip to the training floor or the mess hall when some sort of fuss and fanfare out on the front lawn catches his eye.

The landing strip's got some kind of fancy fighter jet parked front and center. Clearly some sort of experimental stuff courtesy of Overwatch's science wing. The sleek lines of the jet don't catch his eye as much as the familiar sight of Morrison done up in his crisp formal blues, giving some sort of speech to the group of scientists and test pilots gathered out on the tarmac.

"It ain't about you and the Strike Commander, huh?' Jesse muses, chewing at his lip in thought. A moment later, he's beating a somewhat hasty pace towards the stairwell.

Morrison's always been long-winded with his speeches, likes keeping up appearances for PR and all that, so Jesse's not at all surprised when he exits to the sound of applause rising beyond the hangar doors. He keeps his eyes fixed on Morrison with his approach, tracking the man as he steps forward to shake the hand of some little slip of a brunette test pilot. Probably the girl's just won some sort of award, Jesse figures. It don't matter much to him.

Jesse lingers at the edge of the group, catching Morrison's eye more than once as he makes with pomp and circumstance, exchanging pleasantries and whatnot with the pilots and scientists gathered around. It's only after the crowd's starting to disperse that Morrison makes his way over to Jesse, the picture perfect smile held on his face only moments ago slipping into something harder, his lips pursed and eyes narrowed in what seems like curiosity.

"I didn't think I'd expect to see you here, McCree," he says, pleasantly enough. "I didn't know you were interested in the Slipstream program."

"I ain't really," Jesse admits with a shrug. "Was just stepping out for a little air."

Morrison lifts a single eyebrow at the lie, clearly trying to piece together the truth behind the clear blue of his eyes. "I thought you'd be preparing to head back out by now."

"'Fraid we got grounded for the moment," Jesse says, lifting both hands up in a half-hearted gesture of defeat. "Doc's orders."

"I see," Morrison says, glancing back to Headquarters, up to the floor housing the medbay.

Jesse watches him, waiting for Morrison to offer something more, but picks up quickly enough when nothing comes as the silence drags on.

"Can't say I mind the time away, though," he hazards. "Nice to have a chance to catch up with all the folks back on base for once."

Morrison turns back to him, at least having the good sense to look at bit chagrined for his earlier scrutiny. "Is that what you're looking for?"

Jesse grins. Morrison's not the only one who can play the winning smile game. He holds both hands out, palm up. "How long's it been since I saw you last, huh? Seems to me like it's been a couple months at least."

"It has been a while," Morrison says, some of the tension seeming to drain from his shoulders in stark contrast to how tightly wound he was just a moment ago. "I'm afraid I don't have too much time for catching up now, though. The launch of the Slipstream Program's putting a lot on my calendar these days. Director Petras and the folks in the media want a statement before the day's out, and that's not even touching on our regular operational reviews..."

"Busy man as always, huh?" Jesse says with a low whistle. He's seen Morrison's schedule a handful of times before. It's a godawful nightmare. "You making time for Reyes in all of that?"

"We make time," Morrison says, the crisp tone a cold echo of Reyes's earlier words. 

Jesse scowls, brow furrowed. He'd have to be a blind man not to see the set of Morrison's shoulders tensing, the slow clench of his jaw. But it isn't like he can just call Morrison out on the lie either. What he and Reyes have between them ain't none of Jesse's business, but that doesn't set the disquiet rolling his his guts to ease either.

Morrison catches the look, his blue eyes narrowed before he casts a cursory glance over the landing strip, his voice pitching lower when he sees that the majority of the earlier crowd has dispersed, leaving the two of them alone.

"We're fine, Jesse," Morrison explains, his tone softer, almost weary. "It's just a rough patch. We've had them before. If everything goes well with Slipstream, hopefully it'll get some of the media off our back. Help to repair our image in the public's eyes."

The sincerity of his words hits Jesse surprisingly hard, sinking in to lodge with an uncomfortable warmth between his ribs. He glances back at the fighter behind them, at the retreating forms of the test pilots heading back to the hangar doors.

"You think some jet fighter's gonna do all that?" Jesse asks, trying to keep that strange wellspring of hope from coloring his words.

"It's not just the fighter," Morrison says with a shake of his head. He grins, not the usual flash of pearly whites he shows to the camera, but the comfortable, lopsided smirk that Jesse's only ever seen behind closed doors, surrounded by friends and family. It makes Jesse's heart stutter, the warmth swelling, leaving his skin tingling with an uncertain sort of hope.

"It's the pilot."

\---

"Did you meet the pilot?" Genji asks him from where he's stretched naked on the futon in their safehouse bedroom, the pieces of his armor discarded here and there across the room. 

"Come again?" Jesse asks, broken from the rambling account he was giving of what he got up to while Genji was cooped up in the medbay before their departure.

It's nearing midnight. The two of them are tangled together atop the safe house's lumpy futon, the adrenaline of the night's kill dissipating in the air. Genji has already worked off his high this time, leaving Jesse's ass pleasantly sore from the extent of his enthusiasm. The time they've spent together and the adjustments Angela's made have eased the pent up frustration that followed their earlier encounters, but Jesse can tell it's still not quite right, that there's still something restless lingering in Genji even after they finish.

Tonight Jesse's played it off by regaling Genji with stories of Overwatch, of the Strike Commander and others, trying to work his way through his own uncertainty about the hope they might have for setting things right in half as many words. Genji's listened along in silence for the most part, only stopping Jesse to ask the occasional question, prodding and prying him for more details with a dispassionate sort of curiosity.

"The Slipstream pilot," Genji clarifies, rolling over in one fluid motion until he's sprawled over Jesse again, hands braced on the futon to either side of his hips. "Did you meet her?"

"Oh, I met her, yeah," Jesse says, meeting Genji's shift in position with a sharp grin. He thrills at the change in Genji's demeanor, taking the lit cigarillo from his lips to snuff it out in the ashtray on the floor next to them. "Seems like a real trooper, you know. The bubbly little chip and cheery sort." He moves his hands back to Genji's body, smoothing his palms over the sleek synthetic skin covering the curve of his ass. "Got a good figure on her, but I reckon she ain't looking for a man like me if you know what I mean."

Genji snorts at him, his dark eyes impassive to Jesse's attention. "Are you trying to make me jealous?"

"You feeling jealous?" Jesse quips back, a flirtatious lilt lifting his words.

"No," Genji replies. He pushes himself off the futon, rising to stand over Jesse. "I'm going to take a bath. Alone."

"Yessir," Jesse says agreeably, lifting his hands in surrender. He knows there's no arguing with Genji when he gets like this, but that doesn't mean he doesn't appreciate the sight of the other man's backside, all lithe power and grace, as he stalks towards the bathroom.

With a shake of his head and a soft sigh, Jesse stretches, pushing himself up to amble across the room and find his tablet where it sits discarded on the floor with the rest of his tactical gear. They're a few weeks back on the mission now, with more than a fair share of names struck from Genji's list of high ranking Shimada personnel. By this time, the list is starting to narrow, the strikes requiring more coordination and finesse as the Shimada family is well aware that they're being targeted, that there's a beast that waits in the darkness, ready to pounce.

As much as Genji seems to be finding some degree of comfort in his new body, Jesse can't quite say the same for his companion's mental state. Gone are the giddy whoops of victory and the rough, joyous energy that seemed to course through him after their earlier kills. Each member of the family they bring down now seems like a coin flip as to whether Genji's going to snap into an agitated fury, pacing and seething until Jesse can placate him with his body or otherwise, or a still, uneasy silence that stretches all the way until Jesse wakes to find Genji seated in prim and proper seiza in front of the balcony windows, staring unblinking out into the thick haze of the morning.

Tonight has, somewhat fortunately, wound up being the former, though from the harsh tone of Genji's departure Jesse can't help but feel the bite of worry that it might somehow twist into the latter.

It's probably just nerves, Jesse tells himself--probably just the tension of knowing the stakes are getting higher with each kill. Each one bringing them closer to Shimada's highest ranking members, to Hanzo himself.

He sighs, shaking the worry from his head. If Genji wants to talk about it, he will. In the time they've spent together, the fleeting moments when Genji drops his walls, speaks freely about himself, have grown steadily more frequent, but no less unpredictable. Still, it's better than nothing.

Tugging his tablet out from under his pants, Jesse taps the screen open with his keycode, settling back down on the futon. He suddenly regrets snuffing his cigarillo so easily. He pulls open the comm control panel to switch their monitoring back on, only to find the status light cheerfully informing him it never turned off in the first place.

"Goddamn," Jesse hisses, scowling down at the device. He could have sworn he'd turned it off this time. He'd checked, double-checked, and made damn sure of it right after the report went through, but the green light's right there for all to see, holding steady in defiance of the angry glare he's leveling down at it.

Jesse stares at it a moment later, working his jaw slowly in anger before he lets out a frustrated huff, tapping against the screen to pull up the messaging application. Without thinking, he puts in the line for the tech department, patching a call through straight to Headquarters. The call rings, the beeping tone echoing off the safe house walls, stretching on into the night, before it abruptly cuts out, unanswered.

"That ain't right..." Jesse mutters to himself. He runs the numbers in his head. Sure, it's somewhere around five for the folks back in Switzerland, but they're the sort to pull long hours anyway. Determined now, he tries the call again.

It takes two more attempts before it goes through, the screen flashing dark for a moment before it's filled with Winston's harried face.

"Hello, yes. I'm terribly sorry for the delay, I--ah--is there anything I can--oh. Agent McCree?" Winston's agitated rambling stops as he recognizes Jesse's face on the line. "Oh, just one moment, I can fetch Commander Reyes for you--"

"Whoa now, hold up," Jesse cuts in, trying to catch Winston's attention. "I don't need Reyes, I called to talk to one of you tech guys. Got something wrong with the systems out here and I was wondering if you might be able to take a look at it."

"Your systems..." Winston frowns, the words stretching as his heavy brows draw in over his eyes. "Oh, yes, I--ah--I could take a look, perhaps. Or get one of the Blackwatch technicians..."

For as expressive as the gorilla can be, Jesse always finds himself somewhat at a loss for telling exactly what's going on in his mind. But it doesn't take a genius to tell that there's something else weighing heavily on Winston's mind right now. It leaves unease gnawing at the edges of Jesse's throat, sinking down into his gut.

"I'd appreciate that," he says, as nonchalant as he can muster. "Looks like you must have your hands full over there."

"Yes, well..." Winston pauses, broad lips settling in an uneasy line across his face. There's a thought that moves across his eyes before he shifts in front of the camera, heaving out a deep sigh. "I suppose the line is secure, and you're likely to find out anyway, but it's the Slipstream Pilot. We've...we lost her."

The pit falls out beneath Jesse's guts, pitching over into reeling vertigo, his mouth going dry beneath his tongue.

"Come again?" he asks, but he knows full well what he's heard.

"There was a malfunction in the controls during her test flight," Winston presses on, glancing down and away from the tablet camera, guilt weighing his every word. "We tried to stabilize but it was too late. With the state of the wreckage we thought it was a lost cause, but we found her only she's--lost in time. We've done what we can to contain her, but even that much is taking everything that we have. There's plenty of competing theories for how we might be able to get her back, but with the pressure that the Strike Commander's fielding from the incident itself, it's hard to tell whether we'll be able to get the proper authorization, if we're making the right choice--"

He stops, biting the words off with an agitated sound before something seems to come over him. Deliberately, Winston lifts his gaze, adjusting his glasses where they rest across his broad nose.

"I'm sorry for going on, what I meant to say is that we're currently under a lot of pressure due to the sensitivity of the project. I'll have Blackwatch tech look into your problem as quickly as is possible, Agent McCree. Will that be all?"

Jesse wants to say something, anything that might be a comfort. He wants Winston to patch him through to Morrison, to Reyes, to anyone he might be able to talk to who could at least set the worry in his mind at ease by showing him the extent of the damage. But he knows it won't do no good right now. Halfway across the world as he is, there ain't nothing he can do but accept that the project Morrison had pinned his hopes on just went up in flames.

He swallows, chin jerking with a slight nod as a ghost of a smile flits over his face.

"That'll be all then. Thank you kindly, Winston."

"You're welcome," Winston mutters in a gruff reply before he disconnects the call, the screen going blank.

Jesse's fingers twitch uselessly at his side, hungry for the weight of his cigarillo. He stares at the black of the screen, letting the sleek edges of the tablet blur in his eyes until he squeezes them shut against the sting of it.  A numb weight spreads, holding him in place until he hears the sloshing of water and the slide of the doorway into the bathroom. Detached, he lifts his head to watch as Genji saunters across the room, paying him no mind until the silence stretches longer than he's used to.

Genji turns to him, head tilted as he regards Jesse with a curious gaze.

"Did something happen?"

Jesse pulls himself from stillness with a shake of his head, glancing up to offer Genji a lopsided grin in reply. "Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head over."

Genji snorts, disbelieving, but doesn't press. "Suit yourself."

Jesse breathes out with a rough exhale. What was stillness and weight only moments before creeps beneath his skin now, like an unrelenting itch. He shifts where he sits, tossing the tablet aside and pushing up to his feet, snagging his cigarillo from beside the futon as he does. He wants to get out, get away from Blackwatch, from Overwatch, from everything he's done to upend the scraps of hope that they're all desperately clinging to.

"You know for all the good work we've been doing, seems to me like we ain't given much pause for celebration," he drawls, plucking his hat up from where it rests on the floor before shooting Genji a winning smile. "What's say you and me have ourselves a little night on the town?"

Genji glances over at him, the metal of his facemask resting in one hand, something unknown lurking in his dark eyes. He studies Jesse, silent for only a moment longer, before his scarred lips twist in a reckless grin.

"You're on, cowboy."

\---

Two hours later sees Jesse half a bottle of bourbon drunker, shifting effortlessly between flirting with Genji and the bartender in slurred, heavily accented Japanese. They've avoided any of Genji's old haunts, anywhere where there's a chance that they might get caught by the Shimada or any of their associates. The answer winds up being a the tiny little hole in the wall bar they've found off the beaten paths of Hanamura.

The bartender is a lovely older lady named Natsuko who's as tight lipped about the details of her personal life as she is free with her pours. She takes Jesse's money, laughs at his jokes, and matches him nearly word for word in the compliments he pays her, switching easily from Japanese to English and back.

Jesse's flushed beyond pleased, his worries of Overwatch and Blackwatch worlds away as Genji leans heavier against his side, the sleek pressure of his knuckles sliding along the half-hard thickness of Jesse's cock through his pants. 

With a sigh and a grin he turns, nuzzling against the mess of Genji's hair while Natsuko's back is turned.

"You keep that up, and I ain't likely to last until we get back, darling," he murmurs, voice dropping low enough for only Genji's ears.

"Who says I want you to last?" Genji whispers from behind the surgical mask covering his face. He shifts, just enough to catch Jesse's eyes with a defiant look in his dark gaze.

"Now don't you go shaming Natsuko's fine establishment like that," Jesse chides, squeezing the arm he's slung across Genji's shoulders. 

"You would be the one shaming it," Genji says with a jerk of his chin, the corners of his eyes creasing with a sly grin. "I am not the one who--"

"The one who...?" Jesse picks up, frowning as Genji's words suddenly trail off, the set of his shoulders tensing beneath Jesse's hand.

From the entrance, he hears the slide of the wooden doors. Natsuko perks up behind the bar, turning to offer a cheerful " _ Welcome _ !" to the newcomer. 

Jesse turns, the hairs at the back of his neck prickling hard through the warm haze of alcohol. The dim light of the bar shines with a dull reflection against the impassive black faceplate staring back at him. His breath catches, the world around him hurtling abruptly to a halt as the omnic slides the door to the bar shut behind it with a soft  _ clack _ .

It's a dream, he thinks. A nightmare. Hell on earth, his demons come to dance for the world to see. There's no way the omnic could know to find him here, no way that it would dare to show itself in front of another agent like Genji. Maybe it's another unit with the same model, some sort of coincidence, but the pounding of blood and adrenaline in his ears tell him that can't be true.

Just as quickly as the world stilled, it springs to motion again. Genji's palm pushes hard into Jesse's thigh as he shoves himself up from his seat at the bar.

" _ You-- _ " he hisses, voice curling hot with rage.

"Well, what a pleasant surprise," the omnic says, its metallic voice resounding off the walls of the bar.

" _ You're not getting away this time--! _ " Genji barks, his hand sliding down to the sheath hidden beneath the baggy clothes of his disguise.

"Genji--" Jesse says, reaching to catch Genji's wrist in his hand just as Natsuko shouts at the two of them from behind the. 

" _ Don't you dare,"  _ she says, her voice pitching sharp with panic. " _ I'll call the police _ ."

The omnic lifts its hand, turning to regard her and Jesse in turn. "No need," it says, the unnatural calm of its voice twisting like a knife in Jesse's guts. "I'll leave the happy couple to their privacy."

Then, just as quickly as it came, the omnic is gone, slipping out into the dark of the waiting streets. Genji twists himself from Jesse's grasp faster than he knows what's happening, darting past him and through the open door.

"Wait, Genji!" Jesse sucks a tight breath, scrambling to his feet to race after Genji into the chilly night air.

He knows he's no match for Genji like this, not with his enhancements, not with the promise of having his revenge against the Talon omnic so close at hand. But he knows he can't stop, can't give the omnic even a moment alone in Genji's presence. The threat of Genji finding out, of Genji knowing the secret of his own betrayal burns hot in his lungs, driving him on past crowds of harried and confused onlookers, through neon lit streets and alleyways, against the unforgiving pavement at his feet and the dim glow of moonlight overhead.

He doesn't stop when he knows he's lost the trail. It's only when the blur of his own drunkenness presses against the corners of his eyes, leaving his limbs heavy and numb at his sides that he staggers to a halt, bracing himself up against the concrete wall of an alleyway, sucking in deep, gasping breaths past his parched and raw throat.

When he looks up, Genji's standing in front of him, staring him down with his brows knit together tight in anger. His left hand still clenches tight over the hilt of his sword, knuckles white even under the dim streetlights. For a heavy heartbeat Jesse wonders if the omnic's told him, if Genji's abandoned his chase in favor of seeing to Jesse's execution at his own hands.

But then Genji looks away, shoulders collapsing with the weight of defeat.

"I lost it," he says.

Jesse doesn't know what to say. His words stick in the guilt rising like sour bile at the back of his throat. He lets it linger until his eyes water before swallowing it away to rest at the pit of his stomach.

Slowly, unsteadily, he pushes himself up off the wall, stretching his hand out to Genji in offering.

"Don't you worry," he says, the words ringing hollow to his own ears. "That bot ain't seen the last of us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless apologies for how long this chapter took. The holidays were hectic and I've switched jobs recently which has led to a lot of stress. But there's not much left to the story so hopefully I'll be able to finish this up soon!
> 
> As always, feel free to leave comments if there's any parts you liked! Or any sort of speculation and what you're looking forward to. I'd love to hear from you.
> 
> You can also hit me up at at [my tumblr](http://shibaface.tumblr.com) or subscribe to the fic/my AO3 if you like my work!


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